The Case of the Man Who Was Wanted
by MyDearLadyDisdain
Summary: After an inexplicable case in Surrey, Sherlock is after the strangest criminal he's ever encountered: a mass murderer, that has eluded the authorities for almost 14 years. Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes is the only one that can see right away that this Harry Potter character is completely innocent. And hang on, is that tea set floating? (Harry/Sherlock, eventually)
1. Important Things (You've Forgotten)

Author's Note: Obviously, I own nothing. This is a BBC's Sherlock/Harry Potter crossover. There will be slash in later chapters. Also, sensitive and graphic topics, possibly, in later chapters. Or at least, that's what I'm planning on. Since it doesn't have a name, I christen Harry/Sherlock slash "Sherry." AU from halfway through the 7th HP book, after His Last Vow, for Sherlock.

Please review. It would make me oh so happy, and give me the needed motivation to write more and more. Not that I'm begging. But please do :)

Chapter 1: Important Things (You've Forgotten)

Sherlock Homes was not an easy man to fool.

Moriarty, the clever bastard that he was had gotten the closest, but nonetheless, Sherlock was always a step ahead. Magnussen, in a way, did fool him, but it was quickly negated by an unimpeded bullet straight to the skull. Sherlock had gotten the last laugh with that wormy man. The most dangerous and devious criminals had been outsmarted time and time again by Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes is not comfortable being outsmarted.

However, when two residential buildings, seemingly innocent and perfectly normal, were not only outsmarting Sherlock, but in fact _fooling _him, Sherlock Holmes lost his temper.

"It HAS to be here, Watson!" He was pacing back and forth on the side walk, from the door of one to another brick town house. His frustration seemed to be growing every minute, which was saying something, considering Sherlock had been at this for almost 2 hours. Evening was drawing on, and it was getting progressively darker.

John, who was usually more than confident in his best friend's mental competency, was beginning to have some doubts. It was not at all helped by the looks strangers gave them, as they passed the odd pacing man on the street, and John, who had been trying to look as casual as possible.

"Sherlock, I really don't understand." John said to his friend, now worry showing in his face. Perhaps Moriarty, seemingly returning from the grave, had affected the genius detective's perception of reality. John was worried, as a friend, a colleague, and mostly, as a doctor.

"Listen," Watson went on speaking, hoping he might calm his friend,

"Listen Sherlock, there's nothing here. There's number 120, yes. Over here is number 124. There is nothing in between them. 122 Archer Street simply does not exist. It's a fluke, and error in numbering. I really, really, do not understand what we're doing here."

"Well, that's hardly new is it! You, not understanding something. I believe you've been told to put that on a shirt, and now it seems quite appropriate that you do. Now, stay there, and just let me _think!_" Sherlock was in full temper tantrum mode, that much was obvious.

'Nothing for it, just let him ride it out I suppose,' John thought. John had thought this whole case rather weird. Not in the usual way, and not in a clever way, like most of their more famous cases. This one, John thought, was almost...unsettling. It had felt like that from the beginning, from the little house in Surrey. John Watson had an anxious feeling, like they were digging too deep, meddling with things they ought not meddle in. The feeling intensified ten fold when they came across this street, and the two houses with a missed number in between them. John believed Sherlock felt it as well, an instinct, coming from the pit of his stomach, to leave this place, and the riddle of the missing number.

Sherlock was now staring at the gap between the two houses. His gaze was intense, the anger clearly showing on his face. John thought perhaps this was an improvement from the pacing. Although, now he was murmuring to himself, which considering Sherlock, was not all together strange.

"It must be here, can't be underground, soil is all wrong, shade from trees indicates house was build in the 40's, neighbors are new, old ones had seen it, gap too small, bigger on the map, more than one map, eliminate the impossible..."

A cat was lazily ambling up the street towards them. Probably a stray, John thought, no collar. It did have a mangy look about it, the fur was white, but there were gray splotches of dirt on its coat. It passed right by Watson, and pausing at Sherlock's ankles, gave a resounding meow.

John saw Sherlock jump, and quickly look down to locate the source of the disturbance.

"GO AWAY!" Yelled Sherlock, unjustly taking out his ire on the cat.

Two things happened, in such a quick succession, that even Sherlock almost missed it. The cat, frightened, bolted through the gap between numbers 120 and 124. For a second, Sherlock thought he saw the cat flicker, as though it was a mirage. His sharp eyes, ever observant, made sure to follow the little beast. The cat stopped not far away, but now it was sitting on the porch of a house, which had inexplicably (and finally) appeared. The number above the door was 122.

John gaped. There was no way that house was there a split second ago. He looked to the two houses on either side, to confirm that there was no way there was room between them for another. But, as though this was all just perfectly normal, the two houses had become thinner, and further apart. 'This,' John thought, 'was the most abnormal thing in the world.'

Sherlock on the other hand seemed ecstatic.

"Yes! What did I tell you John? Oh this is brilliant, some sort of mirage, or illusion, (possible mirrors) and I'm not sure on the exact method, but we will find out I'm sure... Get your gun out, remember this Potter character is supposed to be dangerous. C'mon!" Sherlock was already striding up to the door, on the _walkway, _that was literally not there a second ago. John was still gaping. Something in his brain was telling him that this is completely impossible, no matter how many mirrors one uses, this was not physically possible. However, quick soldiers reflexes had him following orders, and he had his gun at the ready, and was running behind Sherlock, stopping at the door of the impossible house.

"Alright, I'm going to pick the lock, there's a chance we've been spotted already, but if we haven't, I want to try to take him by surprise." Sherlock was rummaging his pockets, presumably for something to pick the lock. John's heart was racing. The anxiety he had felt was increasing the more he stared at the house. The house looked to be in need of upkeep. Some of the siding had peeled off, and the windows had a layer of dirt. Looking up, John noticed one window lit by interior light. There were curtains, and a flower on the windowsill. He noticed the flower was a purple Orchid, which were Mary's favorite.

_Mary._

_Something so important, he had forgotten, he had to go as soon as possible._

"Oh god, Sherlock, I have to leave now. It's our anniversary. Oh my god, I can't believe I've forgotten, Sherlock she's going to kill me!" John stammered out, and started running back down the walkway toward Archer Street. This whole stupid case had him on his feet, running behind Sherlock for the last two days. He can't believe it. His mobile was still sitting at Baker Street. Mary's probably called dozens of times now.

"Wait, John!" Sherlock was right behind him, grabbing his arm.

"The gun, give me the gun. He's supposed to be dangerous. I'm going to need protection." John practically shoved his gun into Sherlock's hands. Being a good soldier, he knew you should always treat a loaded weapon with respect, but right now he was definitely not thinking clearly. His mind was a jumbled mess. John kept having the same thought over and over, stuck in a loop: _'She's going to kill me, literally, she's capable, and she'll do it. I have to get out of here. I have to get home.' _

Minutes later, the doctor was hailing a cab on Main Archer, panting from sprinting from the doorway of the impossible house between 120 and 124. He would be halfway home, sitting in the backseat of his cab, before his mind finally cleared, and he was able to think rationally. He was already home, running up the stairs before his mind had a chance to doubt. Seeing Mary upstairs, sitting at the table reading a journal, it finally hit him. Their anniversary was a week from now.


	2. Follow the White Cat

A/N: Yay, look how much longer this one is! I still don't own anything, blah blah blah

Please review:) I'd love to know what you think.

* * *

Follow the White Cat

Sherlock watched John's retreating form with a frown. Normally, he would be opposed to his partner running off like that, right in the middle of a case. Not just in the middle, but really right at the pinnacle. The work of two days, of running around London, chasing the most_ bizarre _trail of clues that the consulting detective has ever encountered. Most of them, Sherlock had to admit he still had no answer to. Of course, he would never admit this out loud. Sherlock was definitely hoping that whatever or whoever was in this impossible house would have an answer.

But John was gone now, shouting for a cab a few blocks away.

_Why had I let him go? _

Sherlock looked down in confusion at the gun in his hand. His mind was buzzing, strangely going around in loops, never coming to conclusive thoughts. Sherlock was definitely not comfortable with that. Something was messing with his head. Not just his senses, but his acute logical analysis of the situation. Try as he might, he couldn't formulate a plan or make a decent deduction. It almost resembled being drunk, if not for the clear vision and balance.

He could see John in the distance, getting in the cab now.

_Go after him._

It was incredible, this single spark of an idea seemed so important. Suddenly, all that mattered was that Sherlock leave the doorstep of 122 Archer Street, and chase after John. Everything else in his mind became fuzzy, and Sherlock found himself ambling towards the gate of 122, towards John, away from the house.

The voice in his head kept repeating it: _Go after him, it's incredibly important, you've just forgotten._

_'Hang on, if it's so important, why have I forgotten?' _A moment of clarity. John, remembering his anniversary (but it wasn't today) and running off. Him, Sherlock, almost running off too, for no reason whatsoever. What was this?

Sherlock looked back at the house, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. First, the illusion that seemed impossible. Now, odd impressions that overtook him and John, similar in nature, which caused them to flee. Something very intricate was going on, if Sherlock could only see the bigger picture. There was an answer, there had to be. Whatever it was, it almost certainly could be found in this house.

Sherlock began to amble up the path, back towards the door of the house. The compelling desire to run away was mounting on him every step, but now it was matched by his insatiable curiosity.

_Go away, go to John._

Again, the voice was telling Sherlock, very plainly, that he needed to be elsewhere, and fast. However, another voice was also present, quieter, but more steadfast: _'How is he doing this to my head?' _

At the door, Sherlock pocketed John's pistol, and considered his plan of entry. Picking the lock seemed instinctive, but now he reconsidered. The door, doorknob, and lock seemed simple enough. However, this man apparently rigged his house with mind-altering technology the nature of which Sherlock was completely unfamiliar with. Balance of probability suggested that the lock would not be simple at all, and picking it would waste precious time. Sherlock was still being bombarded by the overwhelming desire to run away, run anywhere, and he knew he would eventually succumb. Unless he got in quickly.

_'Alternate entry: windows, obvious. Two windows are on the first floor, likely never opened, could be locked. Three windows on second floor, have probably been open before, light's on upstairs though, unwise to breach there, could be caught at disadvantage. First floor then, attempt window on the left, enter sitting room, stairs adjacent, entry possible, however perhaps it is wisest to _SIMPLY GO HOME!'

Shaking his head of that last thought, Sherlock darted to the window on the left. Grooves and scratches on the frame suggest indeed it has been opened, but probably by former residents. The new resident however had not, and if Sherlock had to guess, the new resident might not even be aware that this window was here. This was a good choice then, unlikely there will be added locks. Sherlock quickly congratulated himself, and started prying open the panes.

After a few sharp jabs up and down, it gave. Sherlock heard one last booming suggestion that he must go immediately to John. Ignoring it, he climbed through into the dark landing.

* * *

_Everything was upside down, there was a bottomless abyss underneath him, and he was falling, falling falling, forever and ever, but suddenly he was in Appledoor. Magnussen was laughing that sick laugh of his, flicking a kneeling Mycroft in the face. Magnussen turned, and began talking with an ugly accent. _

_"_You should have known Sherlock, you should have figured it out. I thought you were a genius? Look how stupid you turned out to be! How simply delicious."

_"_I'm not stupid!"_ Sherlock yelled, anger and fear were paralyzing him, and he had no idea how old he was. He couldn't move, he couldn't do anything, except drown in his panic._

_"_Of course you are, even your brother thinks so. You're stupid, and now look what you've done? Everyone you love is in my pocket. I'm glad Sherlock, glad you've made this mistake. Glad you are such an idiot." _Magnussen kept flicking the kneeling Mycroft. Suddenly, John Watson was there, walking up, and he knelt there too, at Magnussen's other side. Magnussen was now flicking John Watson and Mycroft Holmes in the eyes, in an off-beat rhythm. Mrs. Hudson, carrying a tray, hurried by in the background. She shot Sherlock a disapproving look, and was gone._

_"_Sherlock, look how very disappointed they are. They thought you were clever, they counted on you. You aren't clever though, are you? Now, I can do this to both of them, and it's all your fault. I can do this all day, forever and ever."_Magnussen started flicking especially hard to accent his words. Oh god, he would be stuck here forever, and he would have to watch his failure play out over and over again. Sherlock was terrified. It felt like he had never been this scared in his life. Why was he so scared? He could barely think, all of his brain devoted to the panic now eating him up. He could barely think anything at all, except that somehow this was all very odd. Since when did Mrs. Hudson serve tea at Appledoor? _

_"_They must be very angry with you. Are you angry with him, Mycroft? Disappointed?"

_Mycroft turned to face Sherlock, flinching with every flick of that monster's finger. His face began to twist into a grimace. Mycroft now looked at Sherlock with such an expression of sadness and heart-wrenching sorrow, as had never been worn by the actual Mycroft ….all very odd...something..._

_"_Hang on, Mycroft would never look like that, he doesn't show that much emotion, ever! No, not in a million years. This, this is all not real!" _Everything came rushing back now, the case in Surrey, the dark-haired criminal named Potter, and the impossible house at 122 Archer Street. Magnussen was scowling, but everything was fading now, fading to mist. The last thing Sherlock saw was Mycroft wearing a triumphant smile._

_"_You figured it out, little brother."

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes. Presumably, he had climbed through the window, as he was now standing in a dark sitting room, and his heart rate was _way _above normal. The panic was slowly dying now, but he could still feel it writhing inside him, something ugly and embarrassing that he wanted to squash.

_'What the _fuck?_'_

Whatever that dream, or illusion, or drug-induced hallucination was, it was horrible. H.O.U.N.D. had nothing on that. It was so personal, so real, he could recall it easily, all the details sharp like a real memory. _But what was it?! _Taking a few shaky breaths, Sherlock decided to go on with his plan to apprehend this man. The questions were piling up, and he needed answers. Sherlock really did hate not knowing.

He decided to take a quick survey of the situation. The overwhelming compulsion to run away seemed to have vanished, and he was returning to his senses. His brain was whirring into activity again.

'_Sitting room, furnished carefully, very dusty. Creaks coming from second floor, casual, meandering, one man, he is unaware that I am here. A soft whistling as well, reminiscent of water vapor. Odd that he is unaware, I must have made noise opening the window. He's sure of himself, thinks no one could get through the strange and horrible security system, overconfident (don't blame him). Or, does not expect entry at street level. Hall is to the right, take stairs up, house has loud plumbing lots of white noise, manage to sneak up on him, can surprise him with weapon.' _

A few more seconds to steady his breath, and Sherlock was creeping into the hallway, where a soft light was coming from the rooms upstairs. He sincerely hoped the stairs wouldn't also make him feel like he took dirty acid and decided to trip down memory lane.

* * *

**Flashback: 2 Days Prior**

"Why did it have to be Surrey suburbs? The most interesting case I've had all month, and it's in the most boring part of the country. These houses, do people actually live like this? How can anyone stand being identical to their neighbors?"

Sherlock could tell his friend and partner was getting annoyed at all his rantings (_John is transparent_). They's been driving for hardly an half an hour, and Sherlock managed to fill that whole time up complaining about suburban life.

"I think I would literally kill myself if I had to live here. In fact, let's put that down as theory number one for how these two kicked it. Elaborate suicide, spurred by the minutiae of the most dull life imaginable." Obviously, suicide was highly unlikely, but Sherlock thought he was being rather funny. John's face contorted a bit, and he looked away. Oh right, suicide seems to still be a sore subject with him.

They were nearly there now though, driving through the calm streets of Little Whinging (_utterly ridiculous name), _they turned on Magnolia Road, took another right and they were there on Privet Drive. It was eight in the morning, and they both had work to do. The police had all of number 4 sectioned of with tape, and all around Sherlock noticed curious neighbors peeking through their blinds, looking at the unusual activity on their street. Sherlock didn't blame them for looking. _Everyone must be so bored here._

The chief, Nelson or Nilridge or something, met them at the tape to let them through.

"Glad you could make it Mr. Holmes, this one's a real mystery, impossible

murders, both of them. Got all of us just floundering for an explanation. Right this way, through here..."

It was a real mystery, and the murders were impossible, Sherlock thought, after examining the scene, so the chief got that right. Man and woman, both nearing their 60's both found dead in their home. The man, in the living room, keeled over on the couch. No wound or obvious cause of death. First thing Sherlock would assume is heart attack, especially looking at the man's size. There was just one tiny detail that proved it couldn't be natural, and that was an expression of absolute horror frozen on his face.

The front door and back door are both locked, no signs of forced entry. These people liked their privacy, they had more than one lock. Nothing on the doors or windows was out of place, and Sherlock could spot out of place. Perhaps the killer was very careful.

The woman though, the woman was completely impossible. Same symptoms, same expression, same lack of wound. But she was locked in her bathroom. There is no window there. The door had to be kicked in, as it was locked from the inside. So a woman died of fear, by herself in locked room? Sherlock began to examine the body on the bathroom tile, her hands, he thought were very telling.

"Interesting..."he murmured.

She must have seen or heard something coming for her husband. She knew what it was, that there was danger, but he didn't realize. She must have ran straight into the bathroom, locked herself in. Her palms had nail marks.

"The killer was in here with her. He stood right here," Sherlock placed himself at near the sink, "killed her, then seemingly vanished into thin air."

The chief tried to interrupt him.

"The door was locked, no one could have been here with her..."

"Which is why, you were right. This is a good mystery." Sherlock started glancing about, ruffling the things on the sink, soap, toothbrushes, a men's razor. A towel rack was hung on the wall, and he began to examine with his magnifying glass.

"The killer was close to 7 feet tall, she recognised him, or at least knew why he was here, didn't fight back, and he killed her. She was terrified, must have know it was coming. Look at the nail marks."

Sherlock rambled off all the other relevant information to the cop, who took it all down in his little notepad. Sherlock knew that what he was giving them wouldn't help them catch the culprit. There was something more to these murders, something that went much deeper. This older couple, the Dursleys, seemed to be the picture of normal, British family life. Their house was spotless, neat and very, very ordinary. Almost obsessively ordinary. So how is it that these two, who no doubt were very boring alive, could turn out to be such interesting corpses? What were Mr. and Mrs. Dursley hiding?

**End Flashback**

* * *

"You..." Sherlock hissed, careful to keep his voice low. "I should have known there was something fishy about _you_." Standing in front of the stairs, Sherlock was looking directly into a pair of yellow eyes. Sitting on a step half way up, looking for all the world like it belonged there, was the mangy, white cat from outside. It gave Sherlock an appraising look, and began to lick it's paw.

_'Bit rude, luring me into a house booby trapped with deliriants, and then pretending like I don't exist.' _Sherlock backtracked; cats weren't rude. Okay, back to logical deduction mode. This cat has somehow become important. Why?

The cat has been a stray most of it's life, evident by the coat, several small patches of hair missing. Probably lived in this neighborhood most of it's life, _but, _recently it has been taken in by an owner. Fur around neck is a little bent, someone tried to put a collar on it. Changed their mind, or maybe the cat didn't like it? The grey spots on the fur are dirt, but they're faint, so someone tried to give kitty a bath. The cat is also a bit fat for a stray, so someone's feeding it, although it doesn't live in their house, and apparently wanders about wherever it wants, and tricks unsuspecting detectives into psychedelic nightmare houses.

The cat came right up to Sherlock outside, before darting into the house, so it's not afraid of people. So all together, what does this give us?

_'Somebody loves you, kitty.' _The cat had stopped licking it's paw, and was staring at Sherlock. He got the strangest feeling that the cat was aware of what he was thinking. What business did a cat have, shooting him knowing looks like that?

The cat gave a loud meow, turned tail, and ran up the stairs out of sight. Sherlock began creeping up the stairs, slowly and noiselessly, once again following the white cat.


	3. Flying Away on a Bike

**A/N: **I still own nada. Thanks to you guys that have commented on this. I really appreciate it actually when you guys point out problems, like the numbering thing with British houses. The point is, I'm a novice writer and need all the help I can get. So pleeeeeeeeaaaaasssseeeee review:) It would make me oh so happy.

This is a long chapter! I think I doubled the length of my last one. Yay! Anyway, those of you that miss John, he's coming back in the next chapter. So yeah, please review and tell me what you think. I think I'm going back to chp 2 to fix some things that felt clunky.

Alright enough rambling, on with the story...

* * *

Flying Away on a Bike

_The cat gave a loud meow, turned tail, and ran up the stairs out of sight. Sherlock began creeping up the stairs, slowly and noiselessly, once again following the white cat._

Sherlock remembered the gun in his pocket. Now was the time to take it out, he thought. Reaching the landing, Sherlock saw a poorly lit dining room. There was a little table with two chairs, and a few candles sitting in the middle of the table. _'Another oddity.' _Someone's shadow was on the wall. He could hear the footfalls of the man he was here to find. The last two days had been utter insanity, if Sherlock was being honest. So, he was hoping this man, with a very strange house, would be able to give him all the answers he needed.

He could hear the foot steps retreat into a room further away, probably the kitchen. Sherlock took the opportunity to sneak into the little dining room. His gun was out, and he was pointing towards the other room, the other man . Sherlock felt the wonderful jolt of adrenaline, making way through his veins. Yes, this was really the best high. Playing cat and mouse with the most dangerous people in London is a risky game, but the most fun game Sherlock has ever played. Even better than beating Mycroft at Operation.

"Meow!" Sherlock had almost forgotten about the cat. It had now joined the man in the kitchen.

"Oh, look who decided to show up again. You hungry?" A raspy voice answered. Male, but not the voice Sherlock had expected to hear. There was a note of something in it. Something that made Sherlock think of Mrs. Hudson, and his parents, and John. Something Sherlock didn't really want think about.

"Where have you been? It's been days you know. I get that being a cat, you have the whole independent thing going for you, but I do worry." Was this man actually talking to the cat?

"Meow!" Oh, and apparently the cat was answering. Has the world gone mad in the last few hours?

"Yes alright, I think I have something for you, just let me look." Sherlock heard the sound of rummaging and couldn't help but thinking this didn't sound like the type of conversation a mad murderer would be having. Especially with a cat. Somewhere in the back of Sherlock's mind things were falling into place, and it would be only a matter of time before his brain produced some of it's own answers. Until then, he needed this man to come out. His patience was running out.

As if in cue, his prey returned into the dining room. Sherlock's well trained reflexes snapped him up.

"Put your hands up Mr. Potter, or I will shoot!" Sherlock saw the dark haired man's momentary look of panic. Then, confusion?

"Is that a gun? Are you seriously hoping to get me with a gun? Well, I suppose it IS a novel idea..." While speaking, the stranger slowly raised his hands. His eyes were darting from the gun to Sherlock's face. Sherlock was looking for all the signs he knew of impending aggression. The stranger's green eyes were excited, but he was peaceful, no aggression evident in his face or body language. The man had a pleasant face, older than what Sherlock had seen from the wanted poster. There were some stress lines, but now the man seemed almost ease. A small part of Sherlock was frustrated. Considering he was pointing a loaded weapon straight at the man's chest, _at ease _was hardly appropriate in this situation.

Sherlock met the man's eyes, trying for his best attempt at confrontational superiority. Sherlock Holmes had stared down maniacs, criminals and notorious psychos in his life. He was not going to let this thin, cat-loving, bespectacled man get the best of him. Looking straight into the man's eyes, Sherlock felt something strange (_for the umpteenth time this evening_).

The man's eyes glittered, and Sherlock felt the curious sensation of being scanned, his mind probed and prodded. Odd words, that decidedly weren't his, floated in the back of his head, almost out of reach of consciousness. _Hogwarts,_ and then, _Where's your wand? _Sherlock had no idea what to make of either. Since when did pigs have warts? And was '_wand' _innuendo?

Sherlock broke eye contact, deciding that being careful was of higher priority than appearing confrontational. This man had access to mind-altering technology, and perhaps hypnosis played a part in his adventures earlier this night. He knew little of hypnosis, although he was sure that it was only possible with direct contact, and time.

"That was...interesting." the stranger spoke again. He looked away, and had a look of consternation, as though trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

"You have a rather difficult mind, Mr Holmes. Admittedly, I'm a bit confused about some things." _Well, that makes two of us._ Sherlock supposed that while the stranger was inclined to talk, he might as well let him. He decide to ignore the edge of panic that sprung up when this man had said his name.

Suddenly the stranger grimaced.

"Sorry, I know it's terribly rude to just break in like that. Being a fugitive it pays to be cautious, but it's a rather unfortunate habit at this point." '_Break in where? I'm the one that broke into his hideout!'_

"What I don't understand is why they would send a muggle after me. They must know very well it wouldn't be challenging for me to escape..." Sherlock had no idea what this man just said, but he was still feeling very insulted. Perhaps noticing the look of annoyance on Sherlock's face, the stranger hurriedly added:

"Not that it's not impressive that you found me in the first place. In fact it'll be quite a joke on the lot of them. Almost fourteen years of highly trained aurors out for my blood, and a muggle with a gun corners me. They always underestimate you, you know. They have this condescending bullshit thing, like _'oh look how cute they are, compensating with their gadgets and gizmos.'_ But this will definitely show them!"

The dark haired man was excited, looking at Sherlock with a look of camaraderie, as though they were about to pull a prank together. Well, Sherlock was not in on it. He still had no bloody idea what was going on, and this man was not making _any_ sense. Although it was good of him to admit that Sherlock was impressive, he was quite sure he wasn't a _muggle_, whatever that was. By the sound of the word, it was definitely an insult. Before he could begin his questions, the stranger spoke again.

" It almost seems a shame that I do have to escape. If it weren't for the threat of the kiss, I'd almost consider letting you bring me in. It would be quite hilarious watching the ministry officials as they realize a muggle police man bested their own people." Right, that had been the last straw for Sherlock. What kissing had to do with anything, he had no idea, but he certainly wasn't going to let this man escape.

"Mr. Potter, I have no idea who _they_ are, and why _they_ have such little faith in my abilities, but let me remind you that I am currently pointing a gun at you, and therefore your chances for escape seem rather slim." Sherlock put on his most acerbic tone, but the stranger merely tilted his head in, a universal sign of confusion. Sherlock decided to plow on.

"I have some question that you will answer for me, first of which is what the _hell_ happened when I came in through the window?" Sherlock could feel his facade crumbling at the edges. All of this night's 'adventures' were compiling, and after all there's only so much a man can take. It was therefore highly infuriating that the man opposite Sherlock kept looking at him with a nothing more than tame curiosity. Suddenly, Potter's face cleared of confusion. He stared at Sherlock.

"You don't know do you? They...didn't send you?" The stranger spoke, with a look of awe in his eyes. Loathe as he was to admit it, it seemed Sherlock really didn't know. In fact, it seemed he didn't know what he didn't know, which was even worse. _'Well, at least it's a first.'_ Sherlock huffed internally.

"Well, then this is most extraordinary!" Potter was back to looking excited.

"The fact that you were able to track me and find me, not even knowing what you were looking for, well it's simply amazing! I didn't even realize that the mugg- er, the police were attempting to find me. I'm not sure how you did it Mr. Holmes, but you have certainly earned my respect." Potter almost stepped forward in his excitement. Realizing what he was doing, he quickly withdrew, his hands still somewhat raised in mock surrender.

Sherlock considered all this. Potter was starting to sound surprisingly like John. So, this man knew the police weren't looking for him. That was illuminating. Until his encounter with the Surrey chief the morning after the Dursley murder, he would have thought the police would be actively searching him out. This whole thing stank of conspiracy.

Reviewing once again the facts from the Dursley murder, he made the resounding conclusion that no, this man in front of him did not murder his relatives (as much as they deserved it, thought Sherlock privately). Sherlock had suspected this, but it was always nice to be sure that you're right. The man responsible for their deaths was almost 7 ft tall. Harry Potter was slightly shorter than Sherlock, and decidedly not that giant. In fact, Harry Potter didn't seem dangerous at all. Slightly unbalanced, judging by the way he was talking, but not aggressive.

More facts and clues fell into their place in the back of Sherlock's mind, and theories formed. He decided to test one out. He suspected that Harry had not yet heard of his relatives' fate.

"I'm not with the police Mr. Potter. However, I am sometimes called to examine cases that are...mysterious. When the police are baffled, I help them sort it out in their undersized brains. The reason I am tracking you, is because two days ago, I was called to Surrey..." Sherlock paused dramatically, seeing that his hypothesis was correct. Harry visibly blanched. He had not know about the murder, and he certainly had not committed it.

"What happened in Surrey?" The man's voice was strangled, as though he was fighting to keep calm.

"A double homicide. A Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were found dead..." Sherlock paused, examining Potter's reaction. He expected cool surprise, maybe a slight twinge of sympathy, but not this. The man's face contorted in a grimace, like he was in pain. He tried to control it, and replace it with something. Potter was very upset at the news of his relative's deaths, and Sherlock had not expected that. Certainly not after what he'd seen at Privet drive.

"...were found dead under very mysterious circumstances." Sherlock finished, now more carefully gauging the man in front of him.

* * *

_Flashback_

Sherlock and Watson stayed on the scene at Privet Drive for some time after examining the bodies of the two elder Dursleys. Sherlock was convinced there were more clues waiting in the house, but he couldn't very well get to them with all these ruffians, er police people, in his way. One or two of them attempted to politely tell Sherlock and John to clear off, but a few insults and deductions about their mothers and love affairs shut them up.

After making sure that most of the police were hurrying away, tail behind their legs, Sherlock began to examine the rest of the house. He was informed by the chief that the two Dursleys had a son, now mid thirties. He had moved out a few years back, and now resides in London. His old bedroom, just as theirs was incredibly boring, and yielded no new information. The chief thought him a suspect but Sherlock announced immediately that the man's IQ was probably in the double digits, and perpetrating an impossible murder was far out of his capabilities.

Out in the hall of the second landing, Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn to the other bedroom. It was apparently a guest room, but there were some details about the door that led to some disturbing conclusions.

"Why didn't you tell me there was a fourth person that lived here?" Sherlock turned his sharp eyes to the chief that was waddling after them, taking in all the information on his little notepad.

"There wasn't Mr. Holmes, just Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, and their son..." He stammered out, but was promptly cut off by Sherlock. Sherlock so loved cutting people off.

"There was another person that lived here. Same age as their son, male. Family relation." The chief began to hurriedly shuffle his notes.

"No, Mr Holmes, no mention of any them having another son, and none of the picture show anyone in them besides the three Dursleys we know about..."Oh how cute, the chief decided to be clever. Using the family pictures, which Sherlock had noticed, to deduce that there was no one else ever living here. Sherlock chose to ignore the chief and strode over to the door of the second bedroom.

"Unsurprisingly, you're wrong. He lived here, in this bedroom. They hated him though, and did their best to hide him away. So there's no surprise he's in none of the pictures." Sherlock knelt down. Well, this _was _getting interesting.

"There was a cat-flap in that door. They would lock him in here, feed him through that." Sherlock walked into the the bedroom and began to examine random objects. John began feeling a bit upset. He hated injustice in the world, and this was an extreme case. How could parents do that?

"Hang on, are you saying they did that to their own son? The locked him in here and starved him, while the other one got fat as a whale?"

Still rummaging about with the closet, Sherlock answered:

"No, not a son. Must have been a cousin or nephew. Yes, I think nephew fits. And yes, John, to everything else. That's not all..." He was standing next to a wall, and moved a tacky landscape painting out of the way.

"He was thrown against the wall here," Sherlock stepped over to the other wall, "and here. It was likely about twenty years ago since he's been here, so most of the evidence is gone. We can assume this was not the only instance of physical abuse."

John was gaping and shooting dirty looks at the wall. War and chasing mad killers might have desensitized him, but he still thought child abusers were sick. Sherlock, seemingly unaffected kept rambling off facts about this other resident of number 4 Privet Drive.

"They were careful to keep him out of society, secluded. They didn't want people to know about him. He had a secret they didn't want anyone else to know. Hmm, this window..." He walked over to the only window in the room.

"They put bars on this window, several times. Somebody forcibly broke them, from the outside. He must have had an accomplice that helped bust him out." And here, John thought these Durley people were moderately normal. Who knew they were the type that would imprison a kid? He felt a lot of his sympathy for their death flee him.

Sherlock was tapping on a floor board with his foot. Suddenly, he was moving the bed, and started prying open the floor.

"He kept his things here, the important ones. There's nothing left now, damn!" Sherlock supposed it wasn't so surprising, these people tried to wipe away every trace that their nephew had lived with them. They must have discovered his hiding spot and got rid of anything that was left. Or maybe the boy took everything when he cleared off.

Sherlock was beginning to feel excited. This was a very intricate mystery indeed. So that's what the Dursleys were hiding? A nephew with a secret of some sort. Sherlock momentarily considered that the nephew had an illness, and that was the reason for his forced seclusion.

No, an illness was unlikely. Next course of action would be to question the neighbors. Hopefully, someone will remember the fourth and most interesting member of the Dursley family. They would need to visit the district's schools as well. He must have gone to school at least, so they would have records there. The next step was clear.

"Right. John we're leaving." With a swish of his coat, Sherlock turned around and loped down the stairs, heading for the door. John, who was used to this abruptness, picked himself up immediately and ran after Sherlock. He was almost to the door when Sherlock halted in his tracks. John had a momentary struggle while grabbing the banister, to avoid running head first into Sherlock and falling on his face. With a considerable degree of ire in is voice, John began,

"Sherlock! What..."

"The cupboard!" He turned around and gave John a _look._ The kind of look that said, 'Don't be mad. Look, a clue of epic proportions that will bring the world's criminals to their knees!' Well, it had better be a damned good clue.

"The cupboard under the stairs," Sherlock strode towards the small door. "There's a lock on it. I'm assuming it was for the nephew." Something cold writhed in John's belly.

"You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting are you?" John asked.

"Probably."

"They kept him in a cupboard?"

"Definitely. Until something happened to change their minds, and relocate him to the smallest bedroom. I have no idea what it could have been. Their attitude had certainly not changed. Perhaps someone else persuaded them?" Sherlock opened the little bolt lock and opened the door.

Looking inside, John realized right away that Sherlock was right, about everything regarding this nephew. Whereas the second bedroom was swept clean of any evidence that someone else lived there, the cupboard was completely intact, with kid drawings, toy soldiers, and a little bed-like nest in the corner. It was like the Dursley had never set foot in here, after it was vacated by it's one miserable tenant. Probably didn't want to face their shame, thought John savagely.

For John, it was cases like this that were the hardest to handle. The contrast of the sleek, shining comfort of the Dursley house and a cramped, dusty cupboard where a child was forced to live were infuriating him. Sherlock was already inside, ducking and putting his magnifying glass to everything within reach. Right now, John didn't really feel like investigating.

He reached inside and yanked a drawing of the closest wall. The kid had some talent, John thought almost fondly. You could clearly see two figures, one with a bushy beard, riding a motorbike. Apparently, this motorbike could fly, as they were zooming past little clouds and stars. Quite an imagination too, then.

"This is fantastic! Everything is preserved, almost perfectly. They must have never come in here." Sherlock was still engrossed in every detail of the tiny "room." John knew that his friend had a clear disregard for the emotional side of humanity. So, perhaps it was not surprising that he was yelling 'fantastic' while he uncovered this family's dark secret. However, the bars on the window, the cat flap, and now this ruddy cupboard were striking at something very painful and upsetting.

"Fantastic? Sherlock, this is a kid we're talking about. A kid that's been through..." John began to express, but of course, was cut off by Sherlock.

"He's not a kid, John. Remember, this all happened almost twenty years ago. He'd be our age now." John was about to retort, but found that what Sherlock said made him feel less upset about the whole thing. He closed, his mouth and walked away from the cupboard. Right, they were still on a case, trying to find the person that murdered the two Dursleys. Right. A sudden thought struck him.

"Sherlock you don't think it was the nephew..."

"That murdered them? No, highly improbable. Although, not for a lack of motive." Sherlock said.

They stayed at the house for a few more minutes while Sherlock upturned everything in the small cupboard. The chief had located them again, and had been gaping at the little space. Sherlock was looking smug that all of his deductions were proven correct in such an obvious way. He informed the chief that they would be in touch when they uncovered more information. To John, he said that they were now leaving the scene, and would be doing some field work around Little Whinging.

John followed after his friend. He still had the little drawing in his hand when they left the house, and he absentmindedly folded it. The man that would be in his mid-thirties didn't really concern him, not really. It was the little boy, that was lonely and unloved, and had lived here two decades ago, that John now felt a regard for. _'Parents should put up their kids' drawings.'_ He thought, as he tucked the yellowing paper in his pocket. John wished, really wished, that he would have come here those two decades ago, to save a little boy that dreamed about flying away on a bike, while he was locked up under the stairs.

_End Flashback_

* * *

"_...were found dead under very mysterious circumstances." Sherlock finished, now more carefully gauging the man in front of him._

Sherlock thought it very surprising that the man had reacted this way. If it were him, he would be happy that a family who had cared so little, and done so much hurt were dead. Well, maybe not happy, but certainly not as unhappy as Harry seemed to be now. One thing was for certain though, Potter was even worse at hiding his feeling than John.

Everything seemed to be coming together in some corner of Sherlock's head. Everyone might think that human nature was a mystery to Sherlock, and in some instances it was, but he knew criminals inside and out. Looking at Potter, it was obvious that it was highly unlikely that he was a criminal. Then, there were the other facts to consider: the cat, reacting to his relative's deaths, the easy manner, and of course, the unmistakable signs of conspiracy overarching this whole case. It was Sherlock's personal opinion that whoever got saddled with all the blame in highly secretive cases was usually not the perpetrator. It was his opinion, but it was proved right on too many occasions.

Now all Sherlock wanted to know is more about who was pulling the string on this whole affair. Undoubtedly, Potter had some idea. Sherlock had about a hundred questions, all lined up. It was no use though, if the man in front of him decided to 'escape.' Sherlock needed to gain his trust. Then, maybe he could unearth some answers that weren't incomprehensible gibberish. Well, in order to gain trust, he needed to give trust, so...

"Mr. Potter, you might think I am suggesting that you are a suspect in the Dursley case. Let me rephrase. I believe you innocent of their murders. I also have reasons to believe that you are innocent of the other crimes that are attributed to you." Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, marking the last bit with a question mark.

The change on Potter's face was astounding. His eyes were suddenly filled with gratitude, and ...hope? Okay, well, some trust is established, thought Sherlock.

"You're not lying..." The man almost whispered. "I can't tell much else, it's all way too fast, but you're not lying. You really believe that."

Sherlock realized how absurd it was that he was still holding John's gun. Harry wasn't dangerous. Or, maybe he was, but not just right now, and not to Sherlock. Lowering the gun, Sherlock sighed, and sat down. Harry eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he lowered his hands.

"Are you gonna offer me a cuppa? Since you're making some anyway..." Sherlock asked. Harry smiled, retreated into the kitchen and came back with two steaming mugs that were mismatched. One, Sherlock noted, had curious little balls in yellow and red for a pattern. The yellow one had wings. Well, what could he _possibly _deduce from that? What sort of ball has wings?

The tea was also something he's never tried before. Some violet concoction that smelled too much like berries. Although, it did taste pretty good, Sherlock admitted, as he took his first sip.

"I'm not sure if I'll be able to properly help you Mr. Potter, considering I'm unaware of seemingly a lot of information regarding you and the secret society you belong to." A stab in the dark, but a good one, thought Sherlock. Secret society was definitely on his list for best explanation to some of the things going on. It must have been pretty powerful one (which was a short list), but none of the ones he was aware of matched.

Apparently Sherlock hit the mark because Potter was now staring at him.

"Nonetheless, you seem to be aware of a lot, Mr. Holmes." Harry was looking at him with awe. Mixed with something. Sadness? He sighed.

"I don't think you'll be able to help me at all, Mr. Holmes." Well that was just rubbish, thought Sherlock. _'I'll be the judge of that.' _

"You don't know me very well, Mr. Potter, or what I do. Whether I can help or not depends on me, doesn't it. Unless you really are guilty...?" Leaning on the pause, Sherlock was gleeful to see Potter rise perfectly to the bait.

"No! No, I'm not." Harry stammered out. Sherlock almost felt bad for him. It was painfully obvious how lonely the man must be, being on the run for more than a decade. He had probably not had a conversation with another human being in ages. It was a bit immoral to use that to manipulate him. Oh well, when Sherlock wanted answers, he was going to get them.

"Right then, first thing I want to know is what happened when I entered your window." This was arguably not the most important question. However, the experience seemed to stick out in Sherlock's head, and he wanted it to have a rational explanation.

Potter sighed.

"I don't think that is the first question you will want answering." Potter said dejectedly. His whole attitude seemed to have undergone a change. He was hunched, and not looking at Sherlock.

"Oh, and what question should I be asking then, Potter?" Sherlock was getting annoyed with this evasiveness. He was trying to help, after all. Harry looked, and held his gaze for a long time.

"I think even you asked them, Mr. Holmes, I would not be able to answer." Harry said, now looking at the floor again. "There are laws about telling someone...different about our society, you see."

"Although..." Potter was hesitating now, on the brink of some decision. He looked back at Sherlock, his eyes glittering defiantly.

"I don't think I could be any more wanted than I am, so what's a few international secrecy laws?" Harry seemed to consider what to say next. Sherlock knew well enough to keep his mouth shut, for now.

"Fine, _culpam caecirius_ was what was cast over the windows and doors_._ It's a ward that's actually meant to er...immobilize someone. I'm still rather surprised you got through." Harry said this all in a very matter-of-fact tone, as though it wasn't just gibberish again.

Sherlock was about to formulate something acerbic in reply, when he remembered that he needed to ask the right question. He pondered for a second on what that might be. Something that connects their society, Potter, and the Dursley murder. He thought of a good question.

"What is it that connects the people in your secret society?" seeing Harry's small smile assured Sherlock that this was indeed the right question.

"Magic, Mr. Holmes. It's magic." Right, that was _certainly _not the answer Sherlock was looking for.

"Who do you take me for, Potter? What, is that supposed to be a joke? I don't know if you're mad or simply think I'm a complete..." Sherlock's voice went dead as he saw the two mugs of tea and the tea pot began to rise in mid air. The tea set was floating, right there in front of his nose, like _magic_. He barely registered that Potter now had a stick in his hand, similar to a conductors baton.

Floating, the china was floating. No, no, not possible.

"It's no joke, Mr. Holmes. Although, whether I'm mad or not, I'm not so certain." Harry spoke, and lowered the wooden baton. The tea set gently clicked down.

"The thing that unifies my 'secret society' is the ability to wield and do magic." He finished, unceremoniously tucking away the stick.

Sherlock had got up now and started pacing. He suddenly remembered that he was in the hide-out of someone who had access to mind-altering technology, or some narcotic that had given him his bad trip earlier. Perhaps he was still being affected. No, he was almost certainly being affected. Was it the tea? No, Potter had drunk it too, and it was from the same pot.

Maybe Sherlock was still under the influence of whatever was installed in the window. Yes, that must be it. Unless...

_'Unless it was what, really magic? Don't be _stupid.' He mentally berated himself. But, another voice in his head insisted that it all matched up.

_'Every case could be explained by _magic. _It's hardly an explanation.' _As Sherlock paced up and down the small dining room, Harry sat there merely looking at him.

"I could do something more...extreme. I just didn't want to upset you." Obviously Potter was worried that Sherlock was upset (and he was). Fine, if he was so worried and wanted to prove this magic thing, Sherlock would go about it the scientific way. Change up the variables. He could perform some parlor tricks here, on his home turf, but what about a change of location? One that wasn't doused in hallucinogens, as Sherlock suspect this place was.

"Can you do that anywhere?" Sherlock asked brusquely.

"Yes, of course. Well, anywhere without an audience." Harry replied, concern still evident in his eyes as he looked at Sherlock.

"Fine. Great. We'll do your magic thing, but at a different location. We're going to Baker Street." Sherlock made to leave for the door.

"Wait," Harry called out. "If we're going to central London, we can take my way. The er...magic way." Sherlock turned around, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Look, if you think of the location very hard, I can take us there in seconds." Harry stammered out, nervous under Sherlock's penetrating gaze. "That is er...if you want." He finished lamely.

"You can take us to central London in seconds?" Sherlock asked, his words drenched in a condescending sort of disbelief.

"Yes. I suppose it requires some suspension of disbelief on your part. Or we could do it the way you came, but I do have to be careful. I'm still on the run from the law and everything." Harry answered.

Alright, Sherlock thought, I'll bite.

"Fine. Take me to my flat in seconds, Mr. Potter." Sherlock tried for sarcasm, but it came out as a sort of unbelieving neutrality.

Harry stood up from the table, and strode over to him.

"Think of the location." Sherlock did, and Harry looked into his eyes and nodded accordingly. _'Preposterous. As though he can read minds.' _

"Brace yourself, it's a bit uncomfortable." Harry grabbed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock wasn't prepared for that, but more so he was not prepared for the unpleasant and claustrophobic feeling of coming out of a thin straw. He closed his eyes against it. When the sensation went away, he opened his eyes and found himself standing in the living room of 221 B, and Sherlock's disbelief was certainly being suspended.

After the proper excuses were made to Mrs. Hudson about the noise, they were free to experiment.

Sometime later that night, Sherlock sat cross-legged on his carpet as Harry was making almost every object in the living room spin, float, dance and wheel about. Sherlock was laughing, and it was getting undeniably hard to assert that magic was not real. Sometimes Harry would transform one thing into another, and sometimes he would change the color of an object, but Sherlock's favorite was when he summoned a flock of bluebirds from the tip of his stick (_wand, he corrected himself)._ They spun a few circles across the room, and landed on Sherlock, singing a song much prettier than any real bird.

Looking around a living room that was literally dancing, Sherlock felt something very old awakening in the pit of his stomach. Some sense of wonder that he hadn't felt for a very long time. Something he felt when he was a child, with Redbeard running beside him, and all the houses were whizzing by too fast to notice, as he was riding so fast it had felt like he was flying away on his bike.

* * *

Please review, my lovelies :) Like it, hate it, let me know.


	4. Suspicions and Research

**A/N**: As always, your reviews are highly appreciated. Tell me what you think:) It's also great motivation for me.

This chapter was a bit difficult to write. It's a bit of a transition really, things that need to take place in order to progress with he story. Well, I hope you like it anyway, and keep reading :D

* * *

Suspicions and Research

John had really screwed up this time. Just _what _was he thinking running off like that, and leaving his best friend in such a dangerous place? The anniversary thing, how could he have been so stupid?

It had felt just like that day that Sherlock jumped, with John running off to see Mrs. Hudson in the hospital when she was perfectly fine, having tea in the drawing room. John knew he wasn't a stupid man (compared to other people, not Sherlock Holmes, who didn't count). But John had felt exceptionally stupid, being so easily tricked by Moriarty. If he hadn't been stupid that time, maybe things would have been different and Sherlock wouldn't have even needed to go into hiding for two years.

But his friend wasn't dead from his mistake, he had to remind himself. The fact that Sherlock possibly killed himself because John wasn't there had added another layer of awful on the whole 'losing your best friend' situation. It was that thought that had been the worst to stomach. It was that thought that had kept him from calling Mrs. Hudson. How could he tell her that it was probably his fault that Sherlock was no longer with them...?

Now he had run off again, just when Sherlock needed him, for an anniversary that wasn't today. Even if it was, he should have stayed. They were dealing with a mad criminal that could apparently make whole houses disappear. Anniversary be _damned, _he should have been there. Mary would have understood. So why had he left?

It was such an odd evening. John distinctly remembered the panic and the need, the compulsion, to run home as soon as possible. What had made him think that? Perhaps, he was just trying to make excuses for himself. _'Right,' _John thought, '_I fucked up, and I need to fix it.'_

John decided right away that he needed to phone Sherlock. Usually it was almost impossible to reach his aloof friend, but he was hoping today he might actually deign to pick up his phone. _'Unless he's in trouble.'_ A nagging in the back of his mind that John squashed down. Right now he needed his wits about him. Taking a deep breath to calm down he took out his phone and called Sherlock.

To his surprise, Sherlock answered on almost the first ring.

"Sherlock! I'm sorry, I can't believe what I've done, running away like that! Are you okay? Are you..."

"I'm fine, John, everything's fine." Sherlock said, a tone of calm.

"Are you sure? Where are you, I'll come.." John was desperate to rectify his mistakes.

"No." Sherlock sighed. "No, John, everything's okay really. You need not worry. It's all...it's fine." His friend's voice sounded a bit tired. But overall, he didn't sound stressed, and he didn't sound like he was in any sort of trouble.

"I'll come now, are you at Baker Street? Did you get in the house? Find that Potter character?"

"Yes John, I'm at Baker Street. There's...well, there's a lot to explain, and believe it or not, I think I may need some sleep. You too, you should rest and come in the morning. I'll explain everything then." Sherlock needed sleep? Since _when?_

"Alright, if you sure you're okay...?" Tentatively, John agreed with Sherlock. He'd been on his feet for two days in a row, and sorely need to kip for a few hours. And who was John to impede Sherlock when he finally decided to join the other mortals and have a good rest?

"Yes, yes, I've said many times now, everyone's okay, and I'll see you tomorrow morning, John. Good night." Click.

John sighed in relief. Mary was still sitting at the table, staring at him.

"What'd you do?" She asked, immediately picking up on the situation. John sat down and tried to explain the evening's events to her. As he spoke, she looked at him with a bemused expression.

"...and then, I was yelling about our anniversary, and how I had to get home right away." John hazily remembered the moment. Everything about this night, waiting outside that damned house, had been a bit of a blur.

"Sherlock ran after me, asked for the gun, and I gave it to him. Then, ran off, hailed a cab, and now I'm here." John finished his story.

Giving Sherlock his gun was another screw up, in a night filled with them. Sherlock might be his best friend, and John trusted him implicitly, but handing him a loaded weapon was probably not a good idea. In fact John had several rules regarding Sherlock Holmes, and one was _'never give that madman a deadly projectile weapon.'_ John thought it was a fair rule, considering that the last time Sherlock Holmes had a gun, there was a dead body between them. Of course, it was all for the best, in the end. Magnussen deserved to die, and John hadn't felt any pity for him. But still. Sherlock needed boundaries. John was usually the person that set them, because if not John, then who else would?

"You know, if you did miss our anniversary, I would take 'attempting to capture a notorious criminal' as a decent excuse. I might not even be mad...for that long." Mary gave him one of her catlike smiles, and scooted closer. She placed her hand over his, and it had an instant calming effect on John. He was right in saying that she was the best thing that could have happened to him.

* * *

The next morning John was hurrying on his way to 221B. His friend had said that there was a lot to explain. Hopefully, the genius that Sherlock was, he would have figured out how Potter could make a whole house disappear.

After knocking on the door, John let himself in. He met Mrs. Hudson on the lower landing. Apparently she wasn't allowed up for awhile, she told him in her 'I'm slightly annoyed, I'll let you boys get away with it though' tone.

"And he keeps making such noises up there, oh, the state the living room must be in by now..." John made his apologies on behalf of Sherlock, and went up the stairs. He heard Sherlock call out from his bedroom:

"I'll be right there, just sit down." Fine with that, John went into the living room.

"Sherlock, do you think I could get my gun-" John stopped. He hadn't realized that Sherlock had a visitor. Sitting on the couch was a man that was happily chowing down on John's takeaway from a few night before. He was so engrossed in the carton of food, John could barely see his face. John took in his appearance and tried to place in his mind who the man could be.

His first thought was client. But the man had been wearing dark trousers that had been sadly worn and inexpertly patched in a few places. He also had ratty sweater in the most ridiculous color of maroon. There was a large capital H stitched into the front. By its wear, the sweater could be ancient. So not a client, but possible one of Sherlock's homeless network? A junkie from the den? With Sherlock, there was just no way of knowing who he would bring home.

"Sorry, I didn't realize we had company..." The man looked up in surprise, a bit of lo mein hanging out of his mouth, and John recognized his face at once.

"You!" John was scared now. What was a dangerous and notorious criminal doing at 221B? Luckily, the adrenaline had made everything slow down, and John could think clearly. He spotted the gun, _his_ gun, lying innocently on an end table across the room. John barreled towards the gun, hoping that he reached it before Potter could pull out whatever weapon he had.

He had the gun in his hands now, and was pointing it at the man on the couch, who was apparently so bemused he had not moved an inch.

"Don't move Mr. Potter, or I will shoot!" It was really not John's fault that he had not recognized him. Potter's hair was long and windswept, falling past his shoulder, and he had a growth of beard. He also had a large pair of circular glasses accosting half his face. He was clean shaven and younger looking by far in his wanted poster.

"This is getting a bit old..." Grumbled Potter, and John wondered what the hell that meant. Harry put the carton of Chinese takeaway down on the coffee table and lazily raised his hands. He also leaned back into the couch, for all the world looking like he was bored. This did nothing for John's temper. He was about to start yelling at the man to get on the floor, when right next to him he heard the deep and calm voice of his best friend.

"Put the gun down John."

"But..."

"No, no, all of that's not true. I had my suspicions for awhile now, but I had the chance to confirm it. You can put the gun down. I assure you, he's nor more dangerous than Mrs. Hudson."

John had already lowered the gun, and looked once again at the man on the couch. Harry already picked up the carton, and was once again munching down on noodles, looking like he had not care in the world. The way he was going at it, one would think he hadn't eaten in days. _'Perhaps he hadn't.'_ John thought, as he took in Harry's gangly frame and rather thin face.

Sherlock had seated himself in his armchair, which left John his own chair. He plopped down in it unceremoniously, and looked at Sherlock. Right, he did say there was a lot to explain. Hopefully the presence of a wanted criminal was one of those things.

Sherlock however didn't seem to be in any rush. He was staring absentmindedly at a spot somewhere above John's head. His long fingers formed a steeple, the universal sign that he was thinking very hard about something. Finally he gave a sigh and began talking.

"Perhaps it would be easiest for you to show John before we tell him." Sherlock said, it seemed like to no one in particular. Harry had paused his ravage of the Chinese food to look up, a cross look on his face.

"Mr. Holmes, I don't intend to tell anyone..."

"Yes, the international statue of secrecy. But, as you eloquently put it last night, 'you could not be any more wanted.' So what's the harm in telling John?"

"There no _harm, _but you can't just tell random people about an age old secret. There's a reason we went into hiding you know..." Harry was becoming agitated. This was not an unusual reaction to Sherlock Holmes. Most of the times John could spot why, but right now, John had no idea what was going on.

"Tell me what? This is ridiculous, what age old secret. Does it have anything to do with the disappearing house?" John was rather indignant at being the only one out of the loop.

"Yes, it has everything to with the house. And Mr. Potter, you'll find that us _muggles_ have changed since the Dark Ages. I'm sure no one would think to burn you at a stake nowadays. Especially not John."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock went on.

"And John isn't _random people._ He's my best friend and colleague. He will be assisting me on this case, and he will need to know in order for us to progress anywhere." John thought that was rather sweet, especially coming from Sherlock Holmes. He always thought of him as his best friend, but it was quite reassuring to have Sherlock also say this.

"I already said you couldn't help." Harry said with a dejected air. John thought that was rich. He was sitting in the client's seat, and telling them that they couldn't take on his case. Sherlock also looked on the brink of arguing. Instead, he changed his tactics.

"Fine, I won't help. But Dr. Watson suffered a terrible injustice last night. He witnessed a house that could disappear and reappear, and was a victim to the muggle repelling charm. I'm sure you would agree that you owe him an explanation?" '_Was that a guilt trip?'_ thought John. It seemed to be working, because Harry now was looking rather guiltily at Watson.

"I am sorry about that. You must be so confused." Well, yes. John was rather confused. He decided that perhaps he ought to add his own two bits.

"I trust my friend, Mr. Potter. He seems to think you're not guilty, and then so do I. If this is the case I think we will both endeavor to help you, whether you think we can or not. And I won't tell a soul about your 'age old secret,' I swear." John tried to sound kindly, putting on his best bed-side manner. He was really curious to the secret now.

Harry looked nervously from Sherlock to John, and back again.

"Are you sure?" He asked, looking at Sherlock.

"Yes, of course."

"Well, what should I show him?" Harry asked, looking pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes widened in excitement.

"You could do the birds, those were brilliant! Or maybe you could change the color of his jumper to something ridiculous, I'm thinking a poisonous shade of pink. Or wait, no, let's go with what you showed me first, levitation." John had the distinct feeling that he was missing something huge.

"Or no, wait! Do you think you could levitate this armchair, with me still in it?" Sherlock was looking at Harry with excitement. As if to prepare for the act of levitation, Sherlock jumped up on the chair and securely grabbed one of the arms.

_'Right, so he's finally gone round the bend. Can't say I wasn't expecting it.'_ thought John. He looked at Harry to see how he was handling being requested to levitate someone. He saw Harry, with an indulgent look, taking out a wooden stick, and flicking it casually in Sherlock's direction.

Before John realized what was going on, Sherlock began rising, armchair included. John was gaping as his friend was somehow being lifted halfway up to the ceiling.

"Can you move me around the room?" Sherlock asked. John couldn't comprehend what was going on.

Harry screwed his features in concentration and Sherlock's armchair began to float towards the fireplace, then the kitchen, tracing a circle around John.

"Faster!" Sherlock shouted. Harry blew out a breath and gave another flick of his stick.

The arm chair did begin to go faster, round and round the room. Sherlock was whizzing by, and John could only sit there, completely floored.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and Sherlock and the flying armchair were in a heap next to one of the walls.

"Shit!" Harry sprang up from the couch and was running towards Sherlock.

"I'm sorry mate, I lost control of it, it's a rather heavy armchair. Shit, I'm really sorry! Are you okay?" Harry was pulling up Sherlock, who was laughing, and brushing away his apologies.

"Ah! So weight matters, how interesting... I wonder, it has nothing to do with your physiological qualities, it's not a matter of your muscle strength. But this is the first limitation that I have seen. What determines the amount you are able to lift?" Sherlock was firing off, while Harry was flicking his wand towards the crash site. A shelf full of knick-knacks was reassembling itself, an oriental vase gluing itself together before John's eyes.

"Inanimate objects don't have a limitation, if you cast the feather light charm." Harry began, apparently satisfied with his clean up.

"You could technically levitate whole buildings, if you make them light first. The tricky part is getting it so that it spreads through the whole object. The bigger it is, the harder that becomes..."

"Oi! What was that?" John was trying as hard as he could to not sound angry. Both Harry and Sherlock jumped in surprise, being so engaged in their conversation, they might have momentarily forgotten John. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Before the middle ages, there was a group of people that had special abilities, and they lived alongside our society. That is why before then, there were so many reports of 'magic' and 'witchcraft.' Most of the time these people were harmless, using their abilities to aide their non-magical neighbors. However, in the 12th century the inquisition came to Europe. I'm assuming they began to fear for their safety, so they went underground, and began to hide their society..." Sherlock began to lecture.

"Hang on, I haven't told you any of that. How did you know...?" Harry was looking at him, astounded.

"Ah, I was right! I deduced that part, I knew it had to be medieval! See John, no such thing as coincidences. Anyway, so when the witch-hunts began, all of the people from this society gathered and decided to keep their culture a secret from the rest of the world. This is why, to this day, very few people that are not magical are even aware of their existence." Sherlock seemingly finished his monologue and was looking at John with the 'figure the rest out, you can do it' look. John endeavored.

"So...then..Harry's a witch?" John asked lamely.

"A wizard, actually." Harry looked a bit offended. John tried to piece the rest together.

"So the house last night, that was magic?" Sherlock beamed at him.

"Correct! And so was your desire to run after Mary, thinking you had forgotten something important. Magical compulsion." John was trying to digest all of this. It certainly made sense. It was the only thing to make sense, in fact. How else could you hide a whole house?

He looked at Harry, in his ratty sweater and glasses. He certainly didn't look how John would imagine a wizard. No long white beard, pointed hat, or billowing robes. But, that stick that he brought out...that must have been his wand. Wizards and wands. And flying armchairs. It was a lot to take in, and John's head was spinning.

"Sherlock, those people we saw, coming out of the chief's office..." Some strings were making connections in John's head. Suddenly a lot more things were making sense from the previous three days.

"Precisely, John. That was how I knew that their society disconnected in the medieval ages. Two groups of costume enthusiasts converging on the two places where we were investigating is too much of a coincidence. Of course, I wasn't sure what it meant then..."

Harry was looking at them both with apprehension. He didn't look comfortable at the mention of other wizards.

"Costume enthusiasts?" He asked.

"Yes, believe it or not, you're likely not the first wizard that John and I have encountered. And the robes were a dead giveaway that something was suspicious..."

* * *

_Flashback_

After investigating the Dursley house, Sherlock dragged John to a primary school, the only one in Little Whining. By Sherlock's reasoning, they would almost certainly have the nephew's records. Sherlock sent John to try to suss out information from teachers, lending him Lestrade's borrowed badge. John attempted to protest and tell Sherlock off for stealing another badge, but before he knew it, Sherlock had already gone somewhere.

The interviews didn't go well. The teachers all seemed to be too busy for him. Without a name to look for, they had nothing to go on. John tried and tried until a rather cross-looking matron told him to leave the property, badge or not, screeching:

"Education is in progress!"

Disappointed, John left. To his surprise, Sherlock was already waiting outside, a file hidden in his coat.

Walking away form the building, Sherlock began to quickly flip through it. He paused on one of the pages.

"John, why is this name familiar to me?" He reached over and let John look at the file. There, in black and white, under the name heading John read _Potter, Harry._

"Sherlock! He's been on the bloody news for almost a decade! Er...I think terrorist involvement or something? Caused the death of a dozen innocent people in the late nineties. I would expect you to know more, since it's your job to chase notorious criminals." Sherlock took the file back, looking at it with a grim expression. John continued.

"So I was right, it was probably him that did in his dear aunt and uncle, isn't it?" Sherlock looked up at this.

"It doesn't make any sense..." He grumbled.

"What doesn't?"

"Think, if he wanted his foster family murdered, you think he would have sent someone else? No, it would have been personal. It would have been revenge. The man that killed the Dursleys had not opened the door to either the guest bedroom or the cupboard. If that man was Harry Potter, he would have likely visited the locations where most of his childhood was lived.

And the murders would probably have been more... _graphic_ if this was anger fueled revenge. And the biggest flaw with that is _why now?_ I'm assuming he's been on the run for a decade, why would it matter to him now that his family died? No John, Harry Potter might be involved, but he did not carry out this murder." Sherlock looked at the file again.

"I suppose the chief ought to know we found the nephew, though. Maybe he'll have a bit more insight into this Harry Potter. Otherwise, I might have to resort to unsavory measures to get the information I need."

An hour later they were standing in the Chief's office, and Sherlock was quickly becoming furious.

"What do you MEAN you don't remember?! It was only this morning, we talked, found two impossibly murdered bodies, there was a cupboard,..." Sherlock was leaning over the chief's desk and yelling at him. John didn't think this was a good idea, not at all. Especially now that he saw the chief calling over two burly police officers, who promptly escorted John and Sherlock off the premises.

Out on the curb, John noticed another group of people standing around near the police headquarters. The people themselves all looked ordinary enough, but they were wearing some odd robe-like suits, decidedly old fashioned. John dismissed them as people who did the whole 'dress up as historical figures and brandish plastic swords at each other' nut-jobs. After all, if he stopped for every weirdly dressed person in England, he would never get anywhere.

Sherlock however, regarded them with a fleeting look of suspicion. Fixing his coat, he huffed (after being so disgracefully deposited on the pavement) and turned tail. John followed after him.

"Do you think the chief was payed off to act like that, then?"

Sherlock considered this.

"Yes, that's possible. I wouldn't have thought him so fine an actor, though."

"Where are we going now?"

"It seems like I have to resort to unsavory measures after all. We're going back to London."

A few hours later, they were outside of lavish palace, where aged government dignitaries all took their tea together. This was also the primary workplace of Mycroft Holmes.

Before the duo would make it inside, both Sherlock and John noticed a group of oddly dressed people hurrying away on some business. Suspicious, indeed.

_End Flashback_

* * *

The three men were sitting around the little kitchen table, as Sherlock recounted seeing the strangely robed men. In his precise memory, he told Harry about the details of the robes, their color, stitching, etc.

"Those were aurors. They're like our special police force. Not surprising they would have linked the Dursleys to me, I suppose. The Dursleys have no other connections to our world, really." Harry explained.

"Right, so what possible motivation could someone have to murder them, since it was obviously a wizard who did it? There-in lies our first clue. If we find the Dursleys' killer, we find the people who wanted you framed in the first place. I'm positive that is the real reason behind the murder: making sure you stay wanted." Sherlock looked rather smug. Harry, however, looked uncomfortable talking about the Dursleys. In fact, he looked rather grim.

"When did it happen, then? Their...er, murder?"

"Three days ago now." John answered. Harry's eyes widened. He looked at Sherlock with a mix of awe and amusement.

"You found me in three days?" He quietly asked.

"Two. I really don't know what your 'aurors' are doing on their job, but once I found the pattern of how you move it was quite obvious."

"Mr. Holmes, as astounding as that is, even if we find the people who did this to me, I don't think you will be able to help. Our ministry, well they don't take the opinions of er...non-magicals very seriously. Even if we find evidence of something that happened in 1998, I very much doubt anyone will listen."

Sherlock was about to argue. Deciding not to push the issue just now though, he opted change the subject, for now.

"Speaking of your hidey-hole, I believe you must have some personal items still there...?"

"Yes, in fact I was planning on going back there soon." Harry pulled up the sleeve of his maroon sweater to look at an ancient golden watch.

"I won't be able to stay there, not anymore. Mr. Holmes, I might be out of touch with you after I leave. Before I find another house, I'll probably have to rough it, so I won't be in London."

Harry stood up, as though to make the point that he had to leave. However, his face now had a look of sad reluctance. Sherlock noticed, and knew that he could use the man's loneliness to his advantage. There was just no way that Sherlock Holmes would let a wizard walk out of his house. There was still so much to know...

And of course, Harry would probably have missed the company of fellow human beings. Sherlock had deduced that once Harry was probably a rather social person, who was fond of strong friendships. Sherlock knew that his own company was perhaps not the most sought after in the world, but it'll have to do. He'll do his best to be more...charismatic. And John could help of course. He was an incredibly 'friendly' person.

A plan was formulating in his head. Despite Harry's reluctance to have them on his case, it was nonetheless a case, and Sherlock wanted it solved. It would be hopeless of him to continue, if he did not have 24/7 access to a wizard. Yes, he certainly needed Harry here. He'll capitalize on Potter's starvation for human contact, and hopefully that will be enough to hold him. Just in case, he made a mental note to invite John over as often as possible, to diffuse his own, sometimes unfriendly, attitude.

"Nonsense, 'roughing it' is out of the question. You'll stay here." Sherlock put it very simply.

John was just as surprised by Sherlock's insistence as Harry seemed to be.

"Sherlock are you sure? You're not exactly..." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. The message he was sending was rather clear. 'Shut up, John.'

"No, I couldn't possibly..." Harry began to back out, but Sherlock was faster.

"Is it not my fault that you are now without a hideout? I insist, you will stay here. I'm in desperate need of a flat mate anyway. And your aurors would never think to look for you in a _muggle's_ home, why would they?" Sherlock now also stood up, to be more level with Potter. He could see Harry was already faltering. No doubt his paranoia at being found, and his desire for companionship were at war in his head. Sherlock could practically see it behind those green eyes.

"And you can call me Sherlock. After everything, I believe we're there, don't you?" Check and mate. He could see Harry's eyes give a strange glimmer at the thought of having friends again.

_'Too easy.'_ Thought Sherlock, sitting back down with a satisfied smirk.

* * *

A bit later, the two dark haired men were ironing out the 'flat-share deal', as John sat and watched them. He had never known Sherlock to be so affable. Even to the point of letting Harry bring about his cat (well not his cat, apparently it was just a stray that took a liking to him).

Harry left 221B, promising to return within the hour, after he dismantled whatever wizardry had been over that house on Archer Street. This gave John some time to privately ask his friend about what exactly was going on.

"Do you make a habit of asking people you just met to be flat-mates?"

"John, he's a _wizard_! Do you know what this implies, about the scientific method, about the universe in general? There's so much interesting research I could be doing. There's no way I would just let him leave, not when there's so much to know." Sherlock still wore the same look of happy excitement. He seemed to be in one of the best moods that John had ever seen him.

John had his own suspicions about why Sherlock had been so adamant about Harry staying here. _'Well, that figures. It took someone who was literally magical.' _John smirked a bit.

The two old friends chatted for a bit longer, before John had stood up, and told him he had to be home. He had a little girl to take care of, not that this hadn't been fun of course.

John left with a slight smile playing on his face. He could see the way that Sherlock had looked at their new wizard-acquaintance. He would bet a considerable amount of pounds that _'research'_ is not all this was about. Now, whether Sherlock realized that or not, was another question.

* * *

**Author's note (again)**: Thank you once again for all your wonderful reviews! It's always lovely coming back and having a few more to read.

To those of you who are wondering what happened to Harry...Well, it might take a while to get there. It might not be till the end of the story that we finally find out how Harry got framed, and why. That's the point of a mystery, of course :)


	5. King's New Clothes

King's New Clothes

Harry Potter sometimes made rash decisions. He always trusted his instincts. He believed that his continued survival was mostly just the ability to follow what his gut whispered to him. Moving in with the strange genius-detective was a very rash decision. To his credit though, the little voice that had been his guide through life, had insisted it was a good idea.

So, after assuring Sherlock that he would be back shortly, Harry apparated back to Archer Street. He gathered his belongings (a single rucksack that had an uncountable amount of charms on it), and began to dismantle the wards he had placed on the house.

He found it truly baffling that anyone, much less a muggle, would have been able to penetrate the spells. The house being invisible aside, the curse he had placed to immobilize any intruders should have stopped anyone who came in. How Sherlock was able to do it, he didn't know.

Harry thought that Sherlock was beyond extraordinary, and for many reasons. His breaking into the house was the least of them. Harry had performed legilimecy on the man, and found that his mind was unlike any other he has encountered. What Sherlock was able to reason out, given the most ambiguous clues, had been...almost magical. Harry decided that he quite liked the man. And despite the fact that he met him only yesterday evening, the little voice in his head was saying that he could trust Sherlock. After all, he was probably the only man in Britain that believed in Harry's innocence.

When he finished dismantling the wards, Harry began to vanish all the evidence of his stay in Archer Street. Dishes, candles, bits of rubbish laying about. A resounding 'meow' made him stop and spin around. The white cat that he had taken a liking to had materialized behind him. He didn't really have a name, so Harry had named him after the cat's favorite neighborhood to haunt.

"Archie! There you are. Listen, I have to move out of here..." The cat pranced up to him and rubbed his leg. Harry wasn't sure if Archie was a magical cat, but he could swear the animal understood him. Archie sat down in front of him, and looked up expectantly.

"You can come with me, it's a nice place with the nice man you met the other day. I asked if you could come, and he said you could. Would you like that?" The cat looked at Harry and gave another meow, decidedly sadder than the last one. The cat looked over to the window, and then back at Harry as if to say _'My home is here.'_

"It would be a lovely place for you though. Central London, fancy alleyways and lots of other cats. And I would feed you very often. Come with me." Harry always felt a sense of embarrassment when he talked to the cat. He just _knew _the critter understood his every word, but that didn't mean it wasn't weird.

The cat looked over to the window again, and gave another meow, sounding something like human longing. Harry understood perfectly as well. Archie would not want to leave the place that was his home.

"Fine, if you're going to be like that, at least give me a hug. I'll miss you, you know..."

The white cat than jumped right on Harry's jumper, and sunk it's claws into the knitting, giving him one of his 'hugs.' Harry reacted and grabbed the cat, wincing at his sharp claws. The cat bumped his head against Harry's chest a few times, and deciding that that was enough, jumped back onto the floor.

0000000000

Returning from the Archer street hideout, and cementing his plan to really take up residence at 221B, Harry started really looking about the flat. He rather liked the place. It was cluttered and very _lived in_. On first look, he thought there was a great deal of rubbish laying around, but now that he could examine it, he found loads of books, a few sets of preserved insects, glassware, and even some weapons laying about.

It reminded him a bit of Grimmauld place, after it had been cleaned up. Not that he expected there to be dangerous magical artifacts laying about, but there was a skull, and that had certainly surprised Harry when he noticed. Keeping a skull was old hat for wizards (mostly dark ones, admittedly). He had no idea what sort of use a muggle would get out of keeping a skull.

He would very much like to ask Sherlock about the skull, but he seemed no where in sight. Despite the mess, Harry's first impression of the muggle's flat was decidedly positive. It seemed a bit odd, but then Harry had not much experience with how muggles lived. There were the Dursleys and the unhappy years Harry had spent there, but this place on Baker Street was about as a different from Privet Drive as one could get. Possibly this is precisely why Harry had such a good feeling about it.

Remembering the Dursleys, Harry felt a guilty pang. There was no reason for them to die, none at all. No, there was one reason actually: him. There was no way that a wizard had randomly selected Harry's relatives as their victim, and it was definitely a wizard that was involved. Sherlock had been right. It was almost certainly the same person that perpetrated the original bloodbath that had been blamed on Harry.

Harry didn't care much for his relatives, glad to see their backs in 1997. That didn't mean he wanted them dead though, not at all. The murder would be blamed on Harry, wasn't that appropriate? In a way, it was his fault.

He looked around the living room, at all the strange and beautiful items. Well, he didn't really want to mess with Sherlock's things much. Especially since the man seemed nowhere in sight. Instead, he decided to visit the kitchen and see if there's any more well prepared food that he could steal. He opened the fridge and looked in.

This is when Harry had come to the unsavory conclusion that he might have accidentally become flat-mates with a serial killer. This was not an unfounded suspicion in the least. Harry really didn't know what else to assume, after he found a severed head in the fridge, and a plastic bag full of...intestines?

The little voice in his head whispered that there was probably an explanation. But Harry was a little pissed at that voice, considering how wrong it had been in letting him come here in the first place. _'Look where you've got us now. We're sharing a living room with a mad muggle who collects body parts. Smashing, well done.'_

Harry quietly closed the fridge and sat down. He didn't feel hungry in the least anymore, and he supposed that was a small plus. On the other hand, he had no bloody idea about what to do with this whole 'potential maniac who butchers people' situation. His best course of action would probably be to call the police, but obviously that was out of the question. `

Harry heard a door slam downstairs, and footsteps on the stair case. Checking that he still had his wand, Harry drew a few big breaths and tried to steady himself. Figures, the first person to believe him about his innocence kept people's heads in the fridge. And his friend (John, was it?) had seemed alright, normal really. Holmes was a bit strange, but he never guessed it was _this_ strange.

Suddenly, he heard the door downstairs open, and a in a few moments Sherlock flounced in, hardly paying any heed to Harry, sitting at the kitchen table. He plopped down at the table across from Harry, acting as though he was perfectly innocent and care-free, and there were no body parts in his fridge.

Sherlock had a few paper bags in his arms and he dumped them on the table. He took out a newspaper from one of the bags, and sat down, opening it and disappearing behind it.

Harry watched him steadily. He decided that he would need to find out all he can about the owner of the head. The man might have had a family, there could be people looking for him. The traitorous voice in Harry's head softly said that it's also possible that Sherlock hadn't been the one to decapitate the man.

Harry considered how to approach this. He was afraid of asking straight up if the Holmes was a murderer. He could find the answers in his mind obviously, as confusing and fast-paced as it was. And although Harry had a distaste for legilimency, sometimes it was necessary.

Legilimency with Sherlock was difficult, as Harry had come to find out yesterday. Half of the things that were in his head had made no sense to Harry, though he could guess they were connected to muggle science. And of course, the thoughts were all very fast, and Harry really had to try very hard to even catch their meaning in the first place.

Sherlock was reading the journal, and his eyes whizzing by on each line. Harry looked in his eyes, and tried to prod at what was going on inside. Sherlock was steadfastly thinking about what he was reading. Random flashes of corpses kept coming up to the forefront, and being discarded again. Harry's throat tightened. This didn't bode well.

He couldn't see anything past the present though. This was...frustrating. He would have to bring the dead man's head to the forefront of Sherlock's thoughts somehow. Otherwise this was useless. Harry gathered his courage and dove in.

"So, uh, there's a bloke's head in the ice box." Honesty was the best policy sometimes. Sherlock looked up at him with a blank expression. Not with a surprised 'what are you talking about, severed heads?' or a scared 'severed head, good god, really?' No, just a blank expression. As though Harry had just asked him if he had any milk.

Suddenly, Sherlock's expression cleared in comprehension and he gave a soft 'oh.'

"Yes, an experiment, nothing to worry about." His eyes went back to the newspaper. Harry was sure he was telling the truth. It was still not consoling, but very surprising.

"Experiment?" He choked out.

"Yes, I need to find out how blood coagulates in the mouth, given the temperature is close to zero centigrade." Once again, truth.

"I mean, where did you get it?" A bit more straight forward, then. Sherlock looked up at this, and studied Harry.

"Hmm, maybe some explanation is in order then... Well, I certainly didn't kill him, if that's what you're thinking. Judging by your pallor, and the fact that you're currently attempting to read my mind, yes, you were thinking exactly that. Perfectly honest mistake, what else would you assume?" Okay, so he didn't kill him. Not only was he telling the truth, Harry could make out the purpose of the experiment. Sherlock was trying to catch a criminal at the expense of some poor sod's head.

"I should have warned you. You might find other...experiments. You should know that I did not bring about the harm of any of those people." Again, all true as far as Harry could tell. He didn't need the look into Sherlock's mind to hear the slight tone of hurt he had taken.

Harry had decided that was enough interrogation for one evening. He promptly pulled out of Sherlock's mind. An apology for the accusation and legilimency seemed a bit awkward. Luckily, Sherlock had seemed absorbed with the newspaper again, until he put down it down with a huff.

"All boring, all transparent. I'm glad I have you here, the criminals of London are being an extreme disappointment." Harry wasn't sure what to make of this, so defaulted to an area he was comfortable with.

"I'll make tea, then, yeah?" Harry pulled out his wand and got the kettle brewing with a few flicks. Sherlock lit up at this, as he had practically whenever Harry did magic. He couldn't blame him, since Harry had felt exactly the same way when he found out about magic. Plus, doing something nice was probably due after he (indirectly) accused his new flatmate of murder.

Making the pot and cups zoom over had apparently been enough for Sherlock.

"So you do a lot of...experiments?" Harry tasked timidly.

"Yes. Most of them I keep at Bart's, but sometimes I need to keep a closer watch on the data. Speaking of which, did you notice if there was a faint blue hue around the corners of the mouth?"

Harry only looked at him with wide eyes.

"Er...no, I didn't notice..."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

"It shouldn't be forming yet, I'll check on it later. I hope my experiments in forensic science didn't put you of your appetite? I got take out again."

Harry looked over to the brown bags with realization. He was feeling hungry, and now a little guilty as well. He opened his mouth to properly apologize, but Sherlock (who seemed to have an uncanny ability close to legilimency) held up his hands, beat him to it.

"Don't apologize. Most people would assume the same. In fact, most people I interact with never really _stop_ assuming that."

Sherlock looked over to the bags.

"I don't usually eat very much, but John had suggested that I get some food for the both of us. Since I have you here for awhile, and we're not under any time constraints, I might as well. My brain does slow down with too much food. You're _not _leaving anywhere, are you?"

"Mmm, no, as long as you're offering your place as a hide out?"

"Brilliant! Now, can you heat up the food with magic?"

They were eating take-out (Indian this time) in companionable silence, and Harry was relieved. He was actually way beyond relieved. He was very, very glad that the first person who had extended anything besides an arrest warrant was also not in the habit of decapitating people.

0000000

Mycroft Holmes had a lot of little problems. Insignificant little bumps in the road, little setbacks, and worries. Most of them, he could solve rather easily, and with a minimum of effort. Korean elections, Middle Eastern radicals, and his ever annoying colleagues all fell into the category of 'little problems.' What Mycroft liked best about little problems is that after he had solved them, they didn't rise up again for quite some time. There were very many of these little worries, but that was fine, because he really didn't need to exert himself much to find a solution.

Mycroft Holmes also had one big problem. One giant problem that wore ridiculous coats (in the middle of summer), sometimes got stuck in opium dens, and was frequently in way over his head.

Mycroft's one big problem was also the one that mattered the most, which was irritating. He wished very often that he could simply not care about his brother, and thereby not get involved with all the harebrained adventures he seemed to attract.

It had been a rather quiet few months since Magnussen and that little fiasco in home front security. Since then, Sherlock had seemed unusually docile. He was hoping Sherlock would be happy for some time, just solving the little homicides and thefts that sprouted in London.

His hopes were all dashed when a few days ago his brother came into his office demanding to know anything Mycroft had on one Harry Potter. It took all of Mycroft's quick thinking and self-restraint to not be very obvious. His brother was not on his level of intelligence, but he could spot when people lied to him. And Mycroft had to lie to him, a lot.

He tried as hard as he could to make Potter's case into something simple, boring even. Mycroft threw in some mentions of irregularities in financial accounts, terrorist affiliations, in short things his brother couldn't give a hoot about. However, it seemed Sherlock wasn't letting on all that he knew about Potter. No matter what Mycroft had said, his brother remained resolute in chasing after him.

At the end of the interview, Mycroft had to simply state that he knew almost nothing about the fugitive, and couldn't give Sherlock any more information. This was almost true. Despite knowing what society Potter belonged to, Mycroft knew nothing about why or how this man was accused and on the run. He generally let them settle their own problems. They usually would, although not always as fast as Mycroft would have liked.

It was an interesting revelation, when Mycroft first found out about their society. The prime minister had chosen him as one of the dozen or so government officials 'in on the secret.' One of _them_ had come and performed some impossible feats with twitches of a little wooden stick. It was baffling, amazing and in Mycroft's calculated mind, very dangerous. And now his brother was chasing one of them, perhaps the most dangerous one there is England. Fantastic.

Mycroft sighed and poured himself a bit more of the finely aged whiskey. Yes, sometime he really wish he didn't love his brother.

Mycroft had tried as hard as he could to keep Sherlock from chasing a deranged wizard, so if anything happens it would be Sherlock's fault. Perhaps it would have been wiser to let Sherlock in on the secret as well? No, Mycroft though, if there's anything that would make Sherlock give chase faster it would have been the promise of magic, real and powerful.

He had even tried to warn him, before Sherlock left his office a few days ago. He had said not meddle with this case, to give it up. Sherlock rightfully looked suspicious, and John looked confused.

Suddenly his phone rang, and he heard Anthea's voice.

"It's your brother sir, he says it's urgent." Good, so he wasn't dead.

"Tell him to come up."

He only had a moment's notice that his brother was coming up. Then, his door banged open, and his brother flounced in with a great huff and swish of his coat. He really did have a flair for the dramatic.

He strode right up to Mycroft's desk, pointed a long finger at him and proclaimed:

"You liar!" Then, Sherlock fell into one of the armchairs, and resolutely looked away. Oh, dear. This would be a _long_ work day.

"Would you care to clarify?" Mycroft asked, Sherlock sneered in return.

"Why? Do you make a habit of lying to family, Mycroft?"

Sherlock was trying to go the guilt approach. Not that it ever worked. Mycroft carefully examined his brother. He had been eating again. This meant almost certainly that the case was off. Which indicated that...

"So you found Potter, then?" Sherlock looked up, and smiled.

"Yes, no help from you, thanks."

"In that case, Sherlock, I'm rather impressed. Where is he now? Did he give you the slip?" Mycroft didn't know everything about wizards, but he did know they can pop in and out of existence at will.

"No, no he didn't." Sherlock was still smiling at him, daring him to ask what happened. It was obvious this was a game to him.

Mycroft recounted the facts. Sherlock would have certainly figured out that there was something unusual about the man as soon as he had found him. He was sure Sherlock would now be (unintentionally) in the know about magic. He also probably realized that Mycroft had been as well.

"I'm rather surprised that you made it back in one piece Sherlock. I understand Potter would have had...eclectic way of defending himself?" This was perhaps the biggest worry on Mycroft's mind. He could just see his brother resurfacing in bits, hacked apart by magic.

"He didn't try to defend himself." Ugh, Mycroft really hated when his brother knew more than he did. It didn't happen often, so Sherlock always lorded it over him as much as possible. Still in the armchair, Sherlock was looking at him with that annoying smile.

"That is surprising. If he didn't give you the slip, where is he now? Certainly you could not trust a jail to hold him...?" Mycroft was hoping his brother would finish with-holding information soon, and clarify some things about this situation. This question game was becoming odious.

Sherlock jumped up and began pacing Mycroft's office.

"I would tell you Mycroft, but..."

"But what?"

"I'm just not sure I can trust you."

Mycroft sighed. His brother really was ridiculous.

"Why, because I couldn't tell you he was a wizard? Or that magic exists? Really, Sherlock, would you have ever believed me?"

Sherlock turned around, with a thoughtful look on his face.

"No, I probably would have thought you mad." Sherlock continued pacing. Mycroft's patience was really wearing thin.

"So..." He began, but Sherlock interrupted him in a flurry.

"I'll tell you everything, but first I have to know if you trust me."

"Trust you with what? To stay away from destructive narcotics, or know when to back out of a case?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"If I were to say that the wizards are wrong in accusing Potter of murder, would you trust me?" Mycroft considered this.

"Yes, I trust your deductive abilities as only second to mine. Not to mention, the only other word I have on this is the few wizards I've met. And to be honest, Sherlock, the one's I've met are all idiots."

"That's...disappointing." His brother frowned, but seemed to relax and flopped back into the armchair.

"Now that we have that established, where is he Sherlock?"

"Oh, Baker Street. Told him he could have John's old room."

Mycroft blinked. That was...unexpected. He decided it was high time for a refill on his whiskey.

"What is he doing there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave him a long look.

"I'm rather surprised at you Mycroft. I would have thought you too would be curious when you discovered them. But I suppose you've never been the curious sort, have you?" Sherlock said.

Ah, so that's what was going on. Sherlock found himself a new toy. Mycroft smiled at his brother.

"So then, you found yourself a new goldfish? I was wondering how long it would take since the good doctor is no longer available 24 hours a day."

"Mycroft, only you think of people as pets." Sherlock scoffed.

"Of course, and you're the shining beacon of humane kindness and affection? I'm not chastising you, brother. This one is a magical gold fish after all. How exciting!"

He could see Sherlock was getting annoyed. Well, he deserved it after making Mycroft worry. This whole time, he and his new wizard buddy had been holed up in Baker Street, while Mycroft had people out looking for any sign of Sherlock. Discretely of course.

"Hmph, the only reason I'm telling you any of this is because before long you will again poke your obnoxious nose into my business. It would be uncomfortable if you decided to phone the wizard cops before figuring it out."

"Wise move, little brother." Sherlock huffed at him, and stood up.

"Fine. I'm leaving." He turned around to make his point.

"Wait, Sherlock, won't you invite me with you? I would also like to meet your new...friend?"

"No Mycroft, you know how dreadfully embarrassing you are." Sherlock retorted, chuckling. Mycroft swallowed the joke.

"Now, brother, don't you think you can benefit from a second opinion?"

"Mmmmm, no, I don't think so."

"Sherlock, I do trust you. But I need to see what you see. Otherwise, I would be doing a grave injustice to the English people, who I am sworn to serve."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"And if you decide that he's guilty?"

"Then perhaps he isn't your best bet for a flat mate? I've hardly ever been wrong, you know."

Sherlock huffed and gave a roll of his eyes that seemed to indicate 'if you must.' Mycroft smiled and ordered them a car.

Sitting in the car, Mycroft considered the new circumstances arising around his baby brother. A wizard at Sherlock's command could be ...formidable. There was the tiny problem of the wizard not being able to leave the flat, but nonetheless, Sherlock could be much more useful with magic at his aide.

Mycroft had already decided that the wizard was, as Sherlock had said, not dangerous. Sherlock's ability to read people had usually been on the mark. If Mycroft was honest, there were some discrepancies in the case that even _he_ noticed. Mycroft had been giving the barest minimum of details pertaining to the Potter case. He briefly considered, then, to offer his help, but decided against it. He hated legwork, and chasing after a wizard would have included lots of it.

What he did want, was to establish what kind of character Potter was, whether he could be trusted with his brother. Then, innocent or not, if he was a danger, Mycroft might have to break a few promises.

The drive to the flat had been wordless, each brother too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Stepping into the flat, they found an irate Mrs. Hudson, who had still not been allowed access to the top flat. Doing their best to side-step the aging landlady, they made their way up to the upper landing.

Apparently, Sherlock had told Potter about Mycroft's visit. He was sitting there expectantly, and got up as soon as they entered. Mycroft thought he had a bit of a vagrant look to him, but he supposed being on the run would do that.

As soon as they made their introductions, Sherlock did his best to focus the wizard's attention on himself, and resolutely ignore Mycroft. Well, that was typical. That was fine, Mycroft preferred to observe anyway.

It seemed Potter had been quite taken with Sherlock. He certainly indulged every time Sherlock asked him for magic. Sherlock, likewise had been very taken. With magic or Potter, it was unclear. Perhaps both. Potter also seemed about as dangerous as boiled turnips.

Of course, wielding magic in the first place made him more powerful than an average man, but Potter's personality didn't seem to have an ounce of aggression. Mycroft sighed internally. He hated when people were idiots, and the wizards were no exception.

Mycroft's attention came reeling back to the present when he realized Sherlock was doing his best to convince the wizard to hex him.

"You could give him some aspect of the Suinae anatomy, you said you could that?"

"Yes, of course I can, but I've only just met your brother, and have no reason to curse him, Sherlock..."

"Oh there's plenty reason. How about a longer nose, that's fairly harmless?

"Sherlock, no..."

Mycroft decided it was high time that he got out of here. Potter seemed to be holding up, but he knew how convincing his brother could be.

"Well, I've had a lovely chat. Sherlock, I'll be keeping in touch." Mycroft gave him a meaningful look, and Sherlock scoffed.

"Mr Potter, good to make your acquaintance." Mycroft held out his hand, with what he hoped was an affable smile. Potter stood up and returned the formalities. Mycroft noticed that he looked particularly guilty.

Leaving the flat, Mycroft entered the car again, where Anthea was still waiting. He took of his coat, and loosened his tie. Then, he noticed that Anthea was positively staring at him.

"What, what is it?" He asked.

"Sir, your vest." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. Anthea scrambled in her purse for a small black case, a compact as it turned out. She held it out to him, with the mirror up. Mycroft looked at himself and was surprised to notice that his vest changed to a particularly hideous combination of bright pink with slime green polka dots. Well, his brother _was_ very convincing.

Fighting the urge not chuckle in front if Anthea, Mycroft returned her the mirror.

"You don't like it?" He asked, putting on his best mock serious tone.

"On the contrary, Sir, very dashing." She giggled.

As they drove away Mycroft considered the two thirty-years-old's holed up in Baker Street. It was clear to him that as far as emotional development goes, they were both in their teens.

_Well, well, well,_ thought Mycroft. _It seems Sherlock has finally found himself an age-appropriate play mate. Good for you, little brother._

**_A/N_**: Thanks again for all your wonderful reviews. I always look forward to them :) Sorry this chapter took a bit longer. I also loooovvvvee all your suggestions/questions. Even if I don't end up going with them, they give me fabulous ideas. So yeah, read and review, and love ya guys.


	6. Mrs Hudson's Tale

**A/N:** Sorry it took so long for this one! I got swamped with other things, but I'm back now, and hopefully will be posting new chapters regularly again. Thank you guys for all your wonderful reviews! I just love reading them! They really brighten my day :)

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**Mrs. Hudson's Tale**

As soon as Sherlock heard the door close behind his brother's back he burst into fits of laughter.

"Can't believe he didn't notice. He always goes on about how his powers of observation are _so_ superior to mine. Definitely never letting him forget this." Sherlock looked over at Harry.

"Oh, don't look so like a kicked puppy. Mycroft had it coming. Wish we could have done something a bit more...permanent. Next time, I really think pig ears would be perfect..."

"Sherlock, I can't just hex people left and right. I'd only just met your brother, and he seemed like a nice enough man. A bit on the posh side, but nothing that deserved magical retribution." Harry was chuckling along too, although with a much more subdued air than Sherlock.

"And you're the person that supposedly decimated a room full of people? Your police force must be nearly as idiotic as ours. I've a few theories on the subject, actually. I think there might literally be a chemical that is released when one receives a badge, perhaps it's in the metal. It's what makes higher thinking for our finest next to impossible."

Harry laughed at that, and Sherlock felt satisfied. Hopefully, next time he would be able to convince him to do something more entertaining than mess up Mycroft's color coordination. Not that that hadn't been entertaining in it's own right.

"In any case, your opinion of my dear brother might change when he decides to kidnap you."

"Does he regularly kidnap people?" Harry asked, a bit confused.

"No, just people close to me. I think the amount of times he did it to John is in the double digits. Usually, it's only because he wants to have a conversation and thinks the phone is just so_ plebeian._"

"I'll keep that in mind, then." Harry said.

Sherlock stood up from the couch and crossed the room.

"All the introductions are almost out of the way now. Just one more. Mrs. Hudson has been growing unbearable. I guess she doesn't like being locked out of my flat. All that talk of her _not_ being my housekeeper, and she can't help but stay out."

"That's the old lady downstairs?"

"Yes, the one. I'll invite her up now." Sherlock made to leave the room.

"Wait! I mean, it's pretty amazing everyone so far seems to take you at your word. I suppose I understand your brother and your best mate, but isn't she your landlady? Will she believe you?"

Sherlock crossed the room back to where Harry was sitting and bent over him, looking straight into his eyes, their faces inches apart. Sherlock decided it was important to make this point very clear. The wizard was very skittish, and Sherlock noticed more than once the tell-tale sign of shifting eyes, which usually meant that someone was thinking of making a quick escape. He couldn't have the wizard escaping. The physical proximity and eye contact would impress the point that indeed, Sherlock was looking out for his best interests.

"Have I given you any reason not to trust me?" Sherlock could see the brief flash of panic that crossed Harry's eyes at being so close to someone.

"No, no you haven't..." Harry seemed to hesitate.

"Yes, of course I trust you. Bring her up I guess. But if you get kicked out of your flat for letting a known terrorist room with you, don't go blaming me, yeah?"

Sherlock decided that was good enough, and straightened up. As he did he noticed Harry release a nervous breath. Sherlock chalked it up to being anxious at another person learning his little secret.

"You're not the only known terrorist that has been here. In fact another one took his tea in that very chair. And she let him waltz right on upstairs. Of course, he wasn't innocent, by far..."

Leaving Harry with a perplexed expression, Sherlock loped off downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson was, as always, in the lower landing. She was watching some incredibly tedious program on the telly.

"Mrs. Hudson! Would you come up with me please?"

The aging matron jumped a little, and looked at him with an annoyed expression. Apparently, not being in the loop of Sherlock's business had irritated her.

"Sherlock, all this business with me not being allowed upstairs, I hope it's over with... I don't know who's been taking care of you, god knows you can't take care of yourself, and all the bangs I keep hearing from up there... You haven't gone and blown another hole in the living room wall have you?"

Sherlock tuned her out as always. Obviously, everything would be clear once everything was explained to her. He led her up the stairs, and into his own flat. Harry was sitting there, still looking rather bemused.

Before Sherlock had a chance to begin his explanation however, Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"Oh good heavens! Sherlock, what's Harry Potter doing in our living room?" Sherlock noted with pride that Mrs. Hudson didn't have an edge of fear in her voice, just curious surprise.

"Yes, you might recognize him. Apparently, he's been on the telly quite a bit in the last decade. You should know, that he is innocent of the crimes attributed to him and..." As he was speaking, Sherlock was looking at, and analyzing Mrs. Hudson, and something was decidedly off. His brain kicked into high gear.

She knew who Harry Potter was, but, judging by her confused expression, seemed to be unaware of his presence on the telly. Sherlock knew she didn't like watching the news, and preferred pop culture drivel. This would explain why she had never seen news reports on apparent sightings of Harry Potter, the deranged murderer. This _didn't_ explain how she knew of him, other wise.

Mrs. Hudson saw her mistake, and attempted to recover.

"Oh, yes, on the telly. Of course, that's where I know him from."

Sherlock literally winced at how bad a liar Mrs. Hudson was. He looked back at Harry, who was looking at the both of them with confusion. So he didn't know what was going on either.

"Mrs. Hudson, how do you know who Harry Potter is?"

Sherlock could see her hesitate.

"Oh, I've just remembered I've left something on the stove. And I've got to dash and get some more biscuits, we're nearly out. The shop on the corner is closing soon, I've really got to hurry..."

She made to bustle her way to the door, but Sherlock was faster, and blocked the way with his frame.

"Mrs. Hudson, how do you know about Harry Potter?" Sherlock repeated himself, (which he really did hate doing).

The landlady wrung her hands and looked from one man to the other. She gave a little sigh, and sat down in the empty armchair.

"Oh Sherlock dear, I'm really not supposed to tell anyone..."

Sherlock groaned.

"Mrs. Hudson, believe me, whatever it is you think I don't know, I probably do. That includes magic."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened.

"I hadn't realized...Obviously I don't go talking about it to anyone, my sister made it very clear no one's to know..."

"Your sister?"

"Yes, the one from Bath, I've told you about her." Sherlock made a gesture with his hand to keep talking. He vaguely remembered a sister. He would have payed more attention if he knew that the sister Mrs. Hudson always mentions was involved in _this_.

"Yes, well, my sister." Mrs. Hudson took a big breath.

"She's a witch. None of the rest of my family knew anything about magic till Margaret got her first letter. It was all very exciting. That's how I know who Mr. Potter is."

Sherlock frowned. Mrs. Hudson seemed to think that this explained everything. And it did make a lot of things clear, but the whole picture was still missing. He would need more information.

"And...you've kept in touch with your sister?"

"Well of course I have! We're not like you and Mycroft, always harassing each other. In fact we're very close. She stayed with me when the Troubles began in the seventies. That is, the magical world's troubles. Poor dear, her husband went missing around then. I rather liked Mr. Fenwick too, such a shame. He was a wizard too, you know. I've only met him a few times, but he was very kind. Maggie was never the same after that..."

Sherlock contained himself as Mrs. Hudson prattled. This is all useful information, he reminded himself.

"...And then in the nineties when the Troubles began again, that's when she told me about Mr. Potter. She had a job in the ministry by then, and she would always talk about you."

Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at Harry. Harry shifted a bit, embarrassed by the attention.

"Oh she'd go on and on, about how this young man had more spine than the lot of idiots she worked with. She would always show me articles from their newspaper (and Sherlock, the pictures move!), and tell me about this amazing young man, and all the adventures he had..."

Sherlock had jumped up and began pacing. Mrs. Hudson's story faded to background level. So, Harry was famous before his crime. This changed everything. Sherlock felt irritation at Potter, for not revealing this. Of course, a famous person would be much easier to frame. Sherlock knew, very intimately, how easily the crowd can be swayed.

"You didn't tell me you were a celebrity before you were set up." He shot Harry a glare. Harry, who had been silent, remained so. Sherlock tried for a deduction. He had to admit he was a bit out of his depth, though.

"You would have been in your teens in the nineties. Child prodigy?"

Harry chuckled.

"No, not exactly a prodigy." Damn. _It was a good guess, though,_ Sherlock consoled himself.

"Oh heavens, Sherlock he's the Chosen One!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"It's been a long time since anyone's called me _that._" Harry added, darkly.

Mrs. Hudson, untroubled, went on.

"My sister told me all about it when she came to stay with me during the second Troubles. Well, she said she was only visiting, but I reckon she was hiding. It was a nasty time, as I understand it. People turning up dead left and right, and poor Maggie in the middle of it all...

She ended up staying with me for a whole year, while the war went on. She would always point to your picture and say, 'There, Martha. If we've got a chance, it's this young man there.' Even though by then the articles about Harry weren't very nice.

Well, she was right wasn't she? Mr. Potter ended up winning the war. It all had to do with some evil wizard, but I never learned his name. No one would say it, which I thought was very strange..."

As Mrs. Hudson spoke, Sherlock digested everything to do with Harry. It seemed that the wizard he had found was _far_ more interesting than he assumed. That was saying a lot, as Sherlock thought that magic was literally the most interesting thing he's ever encountered.

In his mind, Sherlock was making a specific and detailed list of questions for Harry. As impatient as he was, Sherlock realized that he would have to be more delicate with Potter. It was obvious that Harry was immensely uncomfortable at the mention of this magical war. He was fidgeting in his armchair, and his eyes darted about the room.

Usually Sherlock wouldn't care in the slightest if he _hurt his feelings_ or something. But with Harry it was different. Sherlock fully understood that the wizard could easily leave, and finding him again would be very annoying, not to mention time consuming.

Mrs. Hudson, who was oblivious to both Sherlock's calculations and Harry's discomfort, plowed on with her story.

"Well, whatever that man's name was, Mr. Potter was able to defeat him. The articles about Harry all became nice very quickly. Shows you how easily they can turn. Apparently he defeated that man-with-no-name right at the school where Maggie went for seven years.

Hogwarts, was it? Oh she loved it there! She said it was the best place in the world. She told me such amazing stories. You know she met her husband there. He was in the same house: Fluffy-puff, I think. They got married a few years after graduating..."

Sherlock snapped around, a scandalized look on his face.

"_Please_ tell me there's not actually a school house called _fluffy-puff_..."

"No, no it's called _Hufflepuff_. It's named after the lady that founded it." Harry clarified, chuckling.

"I find that nearly just as ridiculous. So..."

Sherlock squared off and stared at Harry. He was done with Mrs. Hudson for now.

"So, you were involved, nay headlined, a magical war when you were a teenager."

Harry nodded to confirm this. Sherlock examined the man before him and noticed a new facet of his character coming through. He seemed...tired, much older than a few minutes ago. He had a slight frown on his face, disapproving the conversation and allowing it at the same time.

"And the man that Mrs. Hudson doesn't know by name?" Sherlock questioned further, too intrigued with the story now to stop himself.

"Tom Riddle, but most call him Voldemort. Megalomaniac who wanted to control the whole world, and refused to stay dead." Harry answered.

"Ugh, those are so obnoxious. There's one named Moriarty, currently running around London. Or, so I suspect. He could be anywhere really."

"Yes, I remember hearing something about him quite recently."

Harry was staring into Sherlock's eyes as he said this, no longer smiling. He had a determined and calculating expression on his face. At first, Sherlock thought he might be trying to read his mind again. But, the odd glitter in Harry's eyes was missing, and Sherlock didn't feel the little push in his mind that signified legilimency.

Sherlock realized that Harry was measuring him, wondering if perhaps they weren't so different. In the back of Sherlock head, Mycroft's voice floated to the top of his mind.

He could hear his brother saying: _'You've found yourself a dragon-slayer.'_

Except, that wasn't what Mycroft said earlier this afternoon, so why had Sherlock's brain produced that?

Sherlock returned Harry's stare, and considered the man. He supposed they were both dragon-slayers, in their own right. With everything Mrs. Hudson just told him, Harry's life seemed to be similar to Sherlock's. Except, Sherlock didn't take on a fully-grown Moriarty in his teens. And it had been Sherlock's choice to side with the angels, he wasn't _'chosen'_ to do so.

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. Sherlock realized he and Harry had been staring into each others eyes for half a minute. Harry came to the same conclusion, and blushing a bit, turned back to Mrs. Hudson.

Breaking eye contact, Sherlock felt an odd lurch somewhere in his naval. It was an odd sensation, and one Sherlock definitely did not recognize. He decided it was probably something magical, and ignored it.

"As I was saying about Margaret, I asked her sometime after the war was over about that young man. She said that he'd gone dark, did some very evil things. And weren't you saying, Sherlock, that Harry was innocent? That's just lovely, I should phone up Maggie, she'll be happy to hear that he hadn't gone dark all along..."

Sherlock and Harry both cried: "No!"

Harry looked at Sherlock with evident fear. His expression read something like 'you better fix this now.'

"Mrs. Hudson, until I clear Mr. Potter's name, and he assures me it won't be easy, absolutely _no-one_ is to know that he is staying here." Sherlock felt sure that the landlady would keep their secret. She smiled at him, her indulgent motherly smile.

"Oh Sherlock! I didn't know he'd be staying here! Well, isn't this lovely. And I thought it must be a terrible blow to you, with John getting married. I'm glad you've decided to move on, dear. And a wizard too! Very exotic."

Sherlock wondered why she always insisted that his roommates were his bed-mates. Mrs. Hudson knew him very well, and should know by now that this was definitely not Sherlock's area.

He noticed Harry's eyes briefly narrow in suspicion, contemplating what Mrs. Hudson had implied. _'Oh great,'_ thought Sherlock. There will have to be another round of explaining about the very intimate and involved relationship he has with his work, and the lack of _any_ sort of intimate relations with people.

Mrs. Hudson was taken care of now. If he had any hope of doing work she will have to vacate the living room.

"Mrs. Hudson, what was it that you left on the stove? Don't you think you need to attend to that?" Sherlock tried his best to imply it gently.

"Oh, no, come to think of it, I haven't got anything on the stove. Are you two boys hungry? Sherlock never eats if he can help it. Horribly unhealthy if you ask me. My mother always said one really shouldn't skimp out on meals, if one can help it.

And Harry, you look awful thin. Poor dear, you probably haven't had a good home cooked meal in ages. I'll whip something up for dinner just this once. Maybe as as a house warming celebration, and we could all sit down..." Sherlock inwardly groaned.

He tried getting up and walking toward the door, to indicate through body language his desire for Mrs. Hudson to leave. She remained sitting, and even worse, talking. Harry, however, was taking it all in stride. In fact, Sherlock observed that the wizard seemed to be quickly growing comfortable around the landlady.

"And Harry dear, do you usually keep your hair that long? I'm not sure it suits you. But you probably haven't been able to go to a barbers or anything..."

"No, no I haven't. And I don't have the courage to attempt to cut it myself. It doesn't really matter to me much."

"Oh that's no way to go about things. I'm a rather adept with a pair of scissors, maybe I could give it a go?"

"If you could, I'd appreciate it." Sherlock sighed. There was no hope of getting Mrs. Hudson back in her rooms now. Not when someone was engaging her. Nothing would work short of bodily forcing her out, and although Sherlock had no problem doing this to his brother (and on occasion John), he could never do that to _dear_ Mrs. Hudson.

Just then he felt his cell buzz. Taking it out, he saw that he had 5 missed text from Lestrade, all of increasing urgency, and increasingly funny. Sherlock chuckled as he read through them.

_Case hopeless. I haven't got a clue why the head was found in the cellar. Any thoughts from you would be great. _

_I swear, if you're just at home playing Cluedo, while the city of London is terrified of decapitations, I will punch you. _

_That last text was a joke, I'm not going to punch you. No promises for Sally._

_Just come. North of Camden Market. Do you want me to send you the address?_

_Sherlock, I need you on this case. Very important. _

_I would rather not beg. Is that what you want? Fine I'm begging. Come, please._

Sherlock had been hoping that Lestrade might figure this one out on his own. Although it irked him that he would have to leave the wizard alone for a bit, Sherlock also felt a sense of warmth from the fact that Scotland Yard really does need him. He knew it of course, but it was always nice to be reminded.

"Right, I'm heading out, will be back in a few hours." No point beating around the bush. Mrs. Hudson reacted to the news with an offhand wave. Harry on the other hand glanced up with a slightly worried expression. Sherlock had no idea what that meant, and decided not to pay attention to it. Occupied with Mrs. Hudson, he was sure that the wizard would be fine for a couple of hours.

0000000000000

"...The only logical solution, then, is that the head was brought down by the brother's wife. Mr. Emberly's murder eliminates him from the will, and framing his daughter, would obviously eliminate her. Thereby, all the money goes to the brother, and in effect, his wife." Sherlock pronounced proudly to Lestrade, who was looking at him with a skeptical expression.

"Well, alright, but why couldn't the brother have done it? Why did it have to be his wife?" He asked.

"Because, if you use your keen sense of insight, that you must have surely developed in the ten years you've served Scotland Yard, you would have seen that the brother deeply cares about his niece. He would have left everything to her given the chance. Also there's the fact that he's a complete pillock and couldn't possibly think up a murder this intricate."

Lestrade nodded his head, looking off in the distance. He was trying to digest all this information. It made sense, and he trusted Sherlock's abilities. There were only a few details to iron out.

"What about Mr. Emberly's daughter? She was found with the head? How could that have been planned?"

Sherlock smiled in his smug way. Lestrade was sure he would go on one of his 'I'm immensely superior in every way' rants before finally divulging the information. However, surprising him, Sherlock went on with his deductions instead.

"Mr Emberly's daughter has been suffering from a severe mood disorder. The brother's wife, ...what was her name? Patricia? Peggy?"

"Alison." Donovan chimed in, an unhappy look on her face.

"Right whatever, that one, she knew about these mood disorders. She assumed, correctly, that upon finding her dear father's severed head, Miss Emberly would swing into a full mental break, and be unable to answer questions, much less establish an alibi. When the police arrived, they would discover a mad woman talking to herself, and cradling a bloody head. And she had to put the head in the cellar, since that is where Miss Emberly was most likely to find it, based on her daily routine."

Sherlock seemingly finished, turned himself around, and looked over the crime scene once again. Greg always had the distinct impression that he might be expecting a round of applause when he finishes solving cases, and announces his conclusion to all the coppers gathered round.

If Greg was being honest sometimes he felt like giving him a standing ovation, but that might undermine his authority a bit with his co-workers (specifically Sally). Anyway, he was sure that Sherlock probably heard clapping in his head all the time when he made his brilliant deductions.

"Well, if that's all, I'll be heading back..." Sherlock begin to wander off. Greg decided this was the best opportunity to approach him. He had a few questions for the consulting detective.

"Sherlock? Can I speak to you for moment?" Sherlock turned around and narrowed his eyes. Lestrade really hated when he did that. He knew all of his secrets were a moment's notice from being disclosed by the nosy genius. He was hoping he'd be able to keep the subject matter not focused on himself this time.

"Listen I know it's none of my business, but you'd been rather...absent lately. I was just wondering if there's something going on? Any trouble? Anything I should know about?"

Sherlock looked at him impassively. Greg decided to elaborate.

"It's just that, if you're busy, I'm wondering what criminal activity going on that's keeping your attention. Especially with Moriarty being back and all. Just, give me a heads up if there is any trouble, yeah?" Sherlock considered him for a second.

"You're still feeling guilty about my 'suicide?' Touching.." Sherlock smirked at him. That wasn't what he was talking about, thought Lestrade indignantly.

"No, it's just...if there's any trouble, you can come to me. You should know that, that's all..."

Sherlock seemed to hesitate, thinking something over.

"You've broken the law, for my sake, a few times." Sherlock stated ponderously.

Now Greg was lost. What did this have to do with anything? Before he had a chance to ask, Sherlock snapped out of his reverie.

"Right, I might stay busy for awhile, but if a _truly_ interesting case pops up, you should know that I'll be bringing a new assistant next time. Just a heads up." With that Sherlock swished his coat, and walked away from the taped-off crime scene.

Lestrade blew out a breath. Although a part of him wanted to clarify exactly what laws he would be breaking in the near future, a bigger part decided that he really didn't want to know.

0000000000000

On his way back to Baker Street, Sherlock decided to take a stroll. He had to work out a few things about his wizard friend, now that his mind was no longer occupied with the Emberly murder. He'd made a few too many deductions that were wrong. And although he tried to assuage his ego by telling himself that the subject of magic was completely foreign, his pride was still wounded.

That and he had a burning desire to impress Harry. The wizard had been able to floor him, after all. Sherlock thought he should return the favor.

Barely noticing where he wandered, as his feet found the familiar paths of London's street, Sherlock set his brain to figuring out what Potter wasn't telling him. Or rather, what he has yet to tell him.

By the time Sherlock turned onto his familiar corner of Baker St, he felt he had a few deductions that would be spot on. Letting himself in, he found both Harry and Mrs. Hudson working in the kitchen.

In his absence, Mrs. Hudson somehow convinced the rogue sorcerer to not only have a shave, but chop off his long hair as well. Sherlock appreciated his land lady very much in moments like these. His new friend looked decidedly better, and much less like one of his contacts in the homeless network.

He considered Harry, now that he was at least halfway presentable. Sherlock supposed, in a very objective way, that the wizard was a handsome man. He was thin, but Sherlock thought it rather suited him. His face was angular, sharp, but all together pleasant.

Harry's worn and patched clothes, though a gold mine of information, would also have to go. Sherlock made a point to remember them all in intricate detail. He felt pretty confident in his memory, and felt like they were no longer necessary. He mentally made the decision to let Harry borrow his own clothes. They were nearly the same size.

Sherlock quietly sat down at the table. Mrs. Hudson seemed good on her promise for dinner, and soon they were all sat down and eating. Sherlock mainly kept his silence, and observed Harry as he interacted with Mrs. Hudson.

She prattled on about things Sherlock couldn't care less about, and the wizard, in a show of good nature, followed her along. He nodded and asked the appropriate questions. All in all, they seemed to be getting along splendidly.

Sherlock thought this was definitely to his advantage. He knew that his caustic personality was liable to upset the wizard at some point. It would be beneficial if Harry also became attached to the land lady. More chance of him staying at Baker Street. More time to study this incredible phenomena of magic.

After dinner, Mrs. Hudson told them that her favorite shows were coming on the telly, and that she'd be downstairs, and if Harry-dear needed anything he ought to call her up. They both assured her that everything would be fine, and thanked her for dinner.

After she was gone, Harry served them tea, and they sat together for a few moments, in companionable silence.

"So then, how was it that you escaped prison?" Sherlock thought he would be sly and slip this clever deduction in, with no preamble. He thought it would certainly be more dramatic that way.

Across the table, Harry's color drained from his face. This was not the reaction Sherlock had expected. He saw Harry's eyes narrow, his shoulders hunch a millimeter, and his hand dart into his pocket. All of the reactions were obvious: he was deciding on fight or flight. However, what was not obvious was why this bit of information caused such a response in Harry.

Sherlock's first thought was that perhaps his deduction was slightly off, and he decided to attempt to correct it.

"Or whatever the wizarding equivalent is. They wouldn't put you in a normal prison, I would think." Across from him, Harry was sitting very still, a frown frozen on his face.

"How could you possibly know that?" The wizard asked hoarsely. Sherlock stared at him. Something wasn't computing. Harry was perfectly impressed with Sherlock's deductions before this. They've all been rather simple ones, to date. Why was this longer leap in logic putting him on edge? He decided to clear it up.

"I deduced..."

"You couldn't have deduced that."

"Well I did...

"I doubt that very much." Harry narrowed his eyes. Sherlock noticed his right hand twitch, as though gripping a gun. It would be his wand, Sherlock reminded himself. He had to admit, this was quickly spiraling out into dangerous territory.

Sherlock still had no idea what was making the wizard this distressed. Frankly, it looked like Harry was a few seconds away from showing the darker and more aggressive side of magic to Sherlock. Sherlock considered letting him, out of curiosity, but decided that he was _not_ the appropriate target for curses.

He was on the verge of apologizing when Harry whipped out his wand, and pointed it straight at Sherlock's head.

"You couldn't possible know that...unless you talked to other wizards..." Harry voice was low and dangerous, but Sherlock could have laughed, as relief washed over him. In fact he did let out a chuckle, which didn't help the situation.

Quick as a shadow the wizard leaped out of his chair, and brandished his wand to the living room ceiling. Sherlock thought he heard him mumble 'Magus Revelio.' Sherlock could have punched himself. Well not really, but it was now very clear what had upset the wizard.

Harry had assumed that the only way Sherlock could have come to that information was if he had sold him to the magical authorities, whoever they were. No doubt, the fugitive now thought that the wizard cops must be closing in on him, and he was going to be dragged back to prison. The quick leap in Harry's logic, though faulty, had impressed Sherlock.

"There's no one coming, if that's what you're searching for. You can read my mind if you like..." Sherlock tried for his best calming voice. Harry seemed to agree with his suggestion. Wand still out, the wizard locked his green eyes with Sherlock's.

Sherlock expected the gentle push that accompanied his friend's ability to read minds. However, this time there was nothing gentle, as image after image seemed to be ripped from Sherlock's mind. It was highly unpleasant, and he felt a thrumming pain forming behind his eye balls.

After the barrage stopped, the wizard still seemed unsatisfied.

"Memories can be faked, altered..."

"Although that's very interesting, and I would love to question you about the implications of that later, let's focus on the matter on hand, shall we?" Sherlock noticed, with chagrin, that his voice sounded rather shaky.

"I can explain to you, how I came to that conclusion. If you can follow, that is?"

Harry kept looking at him with distrust. He made no move to sit down, and Sherlock decided that he might as well start explaining.

"It was Mrs. Hudson's story. If you read between the lines, most of the information is there." The wizard made no move of encouragement, but also none of protest. Sherlock took a big breath and began explaining.

"Her sister was an adoring fan of yours. I'm assuming since you were the young hero that defeated the evil wizard, you had more than one of those. Nonetheless, her sister, who had sided with you during the war (probably to some personal danger), had been convinced that you had 'turned dark.'

Now what would convince and _adoring fan_ of something like that? If it was, as I assumed before, a crime in you were assumed the culprit but never captured, Mrs. Hudson's sister would probably maintain that you were innocent. However, she did not. I.e. you were taken in, and put on trial, after the crime was committed. This is not altogether surprising, since you probably had no idea it happened, and would have been taken unawares.

They must have done a very good job of framing you. I'm assuming there were witnesses that saw you there at the scene. You'll have to flesh out the other details for me later on, if you want me properly on the case, but let's move on.

Obviously, at the trial, they found you guilty, despite your status as, what was it? Oh, the chosen one. It must have been a combination of a mountain of evidence, as well as poorly mounted defense on your part.

Not that I blame you, you would have been hardly twenty at the time. So you would have had to stand a fair trail and found guilty, since Mrs. Hudson's sister no longer stands by your innocence. If you were guilty, they would have put you in prison. You're here now, so you must have escaped. Altogether, not a very difficult deduction."

Harry was staring. Sherlock couldn't quite identify the expression on his face. It wasn't _floored_, precisely. He did notice, thankfully, that he had lowered his wand at last.

"If it helps, I also deduced that your jumper was given to you by a mother of seven children, who's family unofficially adopted you. Oh, and that your favorite dessert is treacle tart." Sherlock finished in what he had hoped was an offhand manner.

Harry ambled back towards the table, and plopped down.

"You got all that from Mrs. Hudson's story?" Harry asked. Sherlock noted that now, at last, he looked properly surprised. He nodded.

"Blimey, I thought you were smart, but that...that's proper genius."

"It wasn't a hard leap, considering all the facts..."

"No. No, that was brilliant. It was incredible. Do you think like that all the time?" Harry was still staring at him with a bemused expression.

"Yes, it's what I do. So was I right? About everything? I usually miss one or two points."

"No, that was...that was everything. I mean, it's astounding, better than legilimency really. Loads better." Sherlock practically glowed with pride. This was the initial reaction he had hoped for. He was glad they were finally here, considering the very long way they had taken.

Harry took a deep breath.

"Right then, I owe you a huge apology..."

"Absolutely unnecessary."

"No, I acted like a git. You're probably the only person in Britain that doesn't think I'm a deranged lunatic, and here I go acting like one."

"Well, I'm hardly an advocate for sanity. You've seen my icebox..." Harry let out an uneasy chuckle.

"Sherlock, still, I'm sorry. Very, very sorry. I guess all that running has made me a tad paranoid."

Sherlock considered the man across from him. Guilt was very easy to take advantage of.

"Well, there is something you could do, if you wanted to make up for it..."

Harry looked up.

"How do you feel about crime scenes? I need a new assistant."


End file.
